UNACCOMPANIED: A Suite for Actress and Android
by MissMelysse
Summary: CRUSHverse. Follows "Crush II: Ostinato." Zoe is away from the Enterprise for six months, working with the Idyllwild Theatre Troupe, but that doesn't mean she and Data will be completely separated, only that both she and Data will be spending a significant amount of time... unaccompanied. Rated M for some steamy bits and other mature content. Data/Zoe.
1. Prelude

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Star Trek: The Next Generation, the_** **U.S.S. Enterprise** ** _, and all the canon characters belong to CBS/Paramount. Anything else is mine. Reviews are better than chocolate; don't be shy._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** **_First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Also, portions of this story are presented in an epistolary format (letters, vid-calls, messaging). Unless otherwise noted, all letters are video messages.  
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 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **I. Prelude**

 _The prelude may be thought of as a preface. During the Baroque era, for example, it may have served as an introduction to succeeding movements of a work that were usually longer and more complex. Stylistically, the prelude is improvisatory in nature._

 **Stardate 45438.89**

 **(Sunday, 9 June 2368, 3:17 PM, PDT, San Francisco, Earth)**

" _Bella mia_ , I feel bad leaving you all alone like this." My maternal grandmother, the woman I knew as 'Nonna,' said, hugging me close to her ample bosom. We were standing in the sun-drenched living room of my new apartment, and I'd been trying to get them to leave for almost half an hour. "You're so young to be on your own."

"Delia, she'll be fine," my grandfather said for at least the thousandth time. I'd grown up thinking of him as 'Nonno,' but in the four days since my arrival on Earth, he'd become 'Papa' instead. "She's not some sheltered infant. She's seen things." He winked at me over my grandmother's shoulder. "Besides, she's probably waiting for us to go so she can call her _amichetto_ without an audience."

My grandmother released me. "Your Mr. Data seems like a nice gentleman," she said, changing the subject, as my grandfather had probably intended. "Isn't there any way we could meet him before the wedding? Your mother introduced us to Ed last year."

"Sometimes," I grumbled, "I think you're forgetting that it's _Mom_ getting married this fall, and not me. I'm seventeen. I'm not sure Data and I will ever get married, but if we do, it won't be for a long time – _years_ , even. Anyway, he works on a starship, just like Mom. He works _with_ Mom. It's not like I'm keeping him from you."

"You, see, Delia?" Papa teased his wife. "She's got a good head on her shoulders, this one. She'll be fine."

"Alright, alright," Nonna agreed, with no small amount of exasperation in her voice. "I'll be waiting in the car." She hugged me one more time, left her lipstick-kiss on my forehead, and flounced out the door in a cloud of guilt and Chanel No. 5, to wait in the family flitter.

Papa waited for her to be gone before he pulled me into a rough hug of his own. "You are my brave, strong, girl," he said. "And your grandmother and I are both so proud of you. Remember, asking for help doesn't mean you're failing, it means you need support in your success." He kissed each of my cheeks, then pulled away. "We'll call you when we get home."

"Okay," I said. "Thank you for everything."

"You're our granddaughter. Spending time with you, helping you get settled here, it's the least we can do. Don't be a stranger, _capisce_?"

"I understand," I told him. "I'll keep in touch, I promise. We'll see each other lots."

I walked with him to the door, but he paused in the entry-way, and pressed a comm-card and a credit-chit into my hand. "Just in case," he said. "Keep them on you, just in case."

Suddenly misty, I squeezed my eyes shut long enough to ward off any tears, but my grandmother's voice screeched up the stairway before I could say anything. "Luigi! I'm roasting in this contraption. Are we leaving, or not?"

Papa and I both burst into laughter.

"It has voice control, the flitter," he said. "But will she use it to turn the cooling on? No…" He was still laughing and shaking his head as he made his way down the stairs.

I waited for his last footsteps to fade into nothing before I closed the door. Then I spun around, surveying my new home.

As apartments go, mine wasn't terribly grand, but it wasn't exactly a slum, either. I'd skipped over the sublets (sleeping in someone else's sheets was too weird for me), and the furnished apartments, and done a short-term lease on a one-bedroom flat on the second floor of a vintage (post-Eugenics War Reconstruction) building on the Haight, across the street from the panhandle of Golden Gate Park.

The hardwood floors had been recently re-finished. The bay window had a bench lining its interior arc, and I knew I'd be having morning coffee there, watching as the city woke up below me. To be fair, it also had a kitchen with real appliances as well as a replicator, and a cast-iron claw-foot tub in the bathroom.

For the rest, my grandparents had cancelled their plans to give me a vacation at the Jersey shore, and we'd spent the last four days shopping and furnishing the place. They'd left me with a fully-stocked kitchen and bath, and as much coziness as two older people could buy, borrow, or box so that I'd feel safe and loved.

The only thing that would have made the place better would have been the _amichetto_ my grandfather had mentioned. But that would come. Data and I had spoken nearly every day of my trip so far, and I knew he'd already scheduled time off to see me as often as he could.

 **(=A=)**

My grandparents hadn't even been gone for an hour when the comm-system chimed the alert for an incoming call. I told the computer to route it through the entertainment system, expecting that the caller would be Annette or Wes – the two friends I already had on Earth.

I was never happier to be wrong. The gold-leaf features of the man I loved came into view on my screen, and I sat, cross-legged on my couch so he could see me. "You're early," I accused, teasing him. He generally tried to time his calls to coincide with my approximate bedtime.

 _"I apologize for the change in schedule. However, I believe you will find the reason acceptable. Captain Picard will be giving the commencement address at the Academy's graduation ceremony next Sunday. The Enterprise will be docking at Earth Station McKinley on Wednesday evening."_

"I thought McKinley was only used for refits and repairs?"

 _"There are other reasons for docking there,"_ he said, _"which I am unable to divulge at this time. In any case, Captain Picard has given me seventy-two hours of leave, commencing on Thursday at twenty-hundred hours, local time."_

"San Francisco local?" I confirmed.

 _"That is correct."_

"You're coming here?" I tried hard not to bounce on the couch in excitement. "You're coming here to spend the weekend with me?"

 _"If you are amenable,"_ he said. _"You did mention, when we spoke last night, that you were looking forward to 'a weekend of solitude to get settled in.'"_

"That never applies to you," I said. I hesitated for the briefest of moments – a breath, really – and added, "To be honest, all day I've been thinking that my bed is too big for just me."

The flicker in his eyes told me he knew what I meant. _"Perhaps we can determine whether that perception is accurate,"_ he answered. _"I will contact you before I beam down,"_ he added. He seemed about to sign off but then he tacked on one more thing, _"If it will not be too late, do not eat dinner. I would like to take you out."_

I grinned at his image on my screen. "It won't be too late," I said. "See you soon."

 _"See you soon,"_ he echoed. _"Data out."_

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45450.36**

 **(Thursday, 13 June 2368, 8:00 PM PDT, San Francisco)**

By Thursday, my apartment was beginning to feel like home. I'd found plants and throw pillows at a street market, completely unpacked, and met all my neighbors. I'd talked to each of my parents twice, checked in with my grandparents on Earth and Gran on Centaurus once each, and talked to Data – even if it was sometimes only a quick check-in – daily.

By the time eight pm came I had showered, and tried on and discarded three different outfits, finally opting to just wear a scoop-neck shirt and a simple skirt, along with the necklace Data had given me as I was leaving the ship.

I'd also hidden away the last collection of shopping bags, and curled up in the window seat with a book, in an attempt to look casual.

I was nervous. Like first-date nervous.

I had no idea why I was nervous.

I answered Data's next comm, which was audio-only, on my padd.

"Go for Zoe."

 _"This is Data,"_ came his voice. _"I am ready to beam down."_

It was customary, in apartment buildings, for people to beam into the main vestibule and then walk to the door for whichever unit they were visiting, so I didn't hear the sound of the beam that brought Data to my doorstep, and I didn't get to see him shimmer into solidity.

Instead, I had to wait for him to climb the stairs, and ring my doorbell.

It was the most excruciating minute-and-a-half I'd experienced in a long time, but finally the bell rang and I called out for him to enter.

As soon as the door opened, I'd given up on looking casual, and was on my feet, and crossing the room to greet him.

Data dropped his overnight bag on the floor and met me half-way.

"Hi," I said, almost shyly, stopping directly in front of him. I was trembling. Could he tell I was trembling? Of course he could.

"Hi," he repeated back to me, the monosyllable that never quite fit correctly in his mouth making me grin. He lowered his head, and his mouth met mine at the same moment his arms slid around my waist. It wasn't a long kiss, but it was enough to restore the taste of cashews – his taste – to my mouth, and to make me moan softly into his.

I let my hands roam over his chest and around his neck, where I clasped my hands. We broke apart long enough for me to catch my breath, and then I stretched up to claim another kiss. I was still trembling, but less so.

When I needed to breathe again, Data held me slightly away from him, looking at me – _studying_ me. "You are shaking," he observed. "Zoe, what is wrong?"

I didn't know what I was going to say until the words came tumbling out. "You're so far away, and there's no cat hair everywhere, and I've been here a week, but I can't sleep through the night, and I already want to be home with you. I can't… I can't do this. I'm not ready."

I wasn't quite hysterical, but it was a near thing.

Androids are not programmed to indulge their girlfriends' hysteria. Well, it was either that, or Data knew me too well, because he took me firmly by the hand and led me to the couch. "Sit," he said.

I did as he asked, and he sat with me, taking my other hand in his, as well.

"I am not certain what you believe you cannot do. If it is learning to live on your own, I believe you are just feeling overwhelmed. You once told me that you used to 'revel in' having your house to yourself when your parents were out for an evening. Consider, you now have an entire flat that is 'all yours.'" He glanced around the room. "You have clearly been busy."

"Nonna and Papa took me shopping," I explained. "I think they feel guilty for never being particularly good about visiting, or something, but it made them feel good. I was fine when they left. I spent last Sunday exploring my neighborhood - finding the good coffee between here and the rehearsal studio. I've been doing that all week – exploring. I found a gym I like, and a bookstore that has the perfect blend of classics and trendy new stuff, and a staff who actually _reads_. I handled all my employee resources stuff so I won't have to deal with that _and_ getting used to a new schedule when rehearsals begin next week… And then you were in my apartment, and I fell apart."

"You have experienced many life changes in a comparatively short amount of time," Data pointed out. "I believe a few minutes of 'falling apart' were called for, and I am grateful that I could be here to help put you back together again."

"Me, too," I said. I took a deep breath, met his eyes, and smiled. "I'm glad you're here. I'm a little worried that I'll be a basket case three weeks or a month from now, if I'm this bad after only ten days, though."

"Perhaps your extreme reaction is simply because everything is 'new,'" he suggested. "I am confident that you will find your footing, and I suspect once you have begun rehearsals and begun forming friendships, things will 'get better.'"

"Wise words," I smiled. "Thank you." I took a breath. "You said something about going out for dinner? Am I dressed okay?"

"Your attire is more than 'okay,'" Data assured me. "Are you ready?"

"Let me just refresh my make-up, and then I will be."

We went to a small Ethiopian restaurant only a couple of blocks from my apartment. I'm not sure if it was the fact that Data was one of the most recognizable members of the _Enterprise_ crew, or if it was just that he was in uniform and in the company town that San Francisco had become since Starfleet's inception, lieutenant commander's pips had more weight than civvies, but we were seated ahead of several others waiting for tables.

"How did you find this place?" I asked after we'd ordered a selection of vegetarian dishes recommended by our server. "You barely dated before we got together, and from what you told me you never socialized much when you were at the Academy."

"That is true," Data affirmed. "Lt. Alazar overheard Geordi and I discussing my plans for this weekend, and suggested this restaurant. Her parents own it."

"You should introduce yourself, let them know she recommended it."

"I will certainly do so after our meal."

Our order was delivered – piles of differently seasoned lentils and root vegetables arranged on a communal plate layered with a sort of sourdough-ish flatbread called _injera_ , and a side of thick, tart yogurt, as well. It might have been June, but the city was chilly at night, and the food was the perfect blend of actual heat and spice-induced heat.

As we ate, Data caught me up on events from the ship. "The Ullian memory retrieval technique seemed to be quite cathartic for those who allowed Tarmin to demonstrate it."

I nodded. "I had a letter from Keiko, telling me about the way he helped her remember her grandmother's brush paintings."

"Are there memories you wish you could retrieve?"

"I have a vague memory of meeting you for the first time, when I was… twelve I think? I wouldn't mind a better recollection of that…" I trailed off. "How's Counselor Troi doing?"

"She has fully recovered from the coma she was in," Data answered.

"No, I meant…" Again, I let the sentence trail into nothingness.

"You wish to know if she has recovered from being… violated?"

"Yeah." She'd told me what had happened in our last conversation, a couple of days before. I was pretty certain she hadn't meant to blurt it, but I also had an understanding that her colleagues didn't, about what she'd gone through.

"I am afraid I am not privy to that information. She requested leave while the _Enterprise_ is here on Earth, but I do not know where she went."

"It's good she's taking some time," I said. "Time helps." I took a drink of my sparkling water. "Having someone solid to lean on helps more." We reached across the table for each other's hands at the same moment, and I wondered if he was anticipating me, or if the desire for contact was as much his as it was mine. I shuddered. "Being raped… physically, I mean, it's horrible. You know – you saw. I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to have your mind taken away from you like that."

"I do not have to imagine it," Data said, pitching his voice low for privacy. "Several years ago a man who was, in a sense, my grandfather transferred his essence – his consciousness - into my body, and was nearly successful in pushing my own 'self' out."

I turned my hand in his, lacing our fingers together, and squeezing. "Data, that's… I don't even have words."

"You do not need words," he said. "Dr. Graves saw the error of his choice when he caused physical harm to a woman he loved, and fled into the _Enterprise_ 's computer, restoring my persona in the process. It is not an experience I would care to repeat."

"I don't blame you." I said. "It must have been frightening for you."

"It was… disconcerting," Data admitted. I wonder if he'd made a conscious decision to discontinue his practice of denying the possibility of emotional responses for my sake, or for another reason, but I didn't ask. I also didn't ask how a human could transfer themselves into an android body. Those questions could wait.

"I believe Commander Riker will be joining the Counselor," Data added, for my benefit, "after I resume my duties on Monday. I believe he would qualify as her 'someone solid.'"

"I thought you only had the weekend because the _Enterprise_ wasn't staying that long."

"Initially that was correct" he said. "However, we will likely be here longer than originally anticipated. There was… an incident with one of the flight teams at the Academy. A cadet was killed."

"I saw that in the news, but it didn't occur to me that the _Enterprise_ would be involved." I took a beat. "Wait… the cadet who died… it wasn't Wes, was it?" I'd been meaning to contact my former classmate since getting back to Earth, but hadn't yet.

"It was not," he said. "But he was a member of the flight team in question."

"But he's okay?"

"As far as I am aware, yes."

The server returned then, to clear away the remains of our meal, and Data asked if she would let the owners know that he worked with their daughter.

Both of Lt. Alazar's parents came out from the kitchen, listening first to me gushing about the food – it really had been delicious – and then to Data assuring them that their daughter was a 'competent and well-liked member of the engineering staff.'

They seemed a little in awe of my boyfriend, and I had to hide my giggles behind my napkin. They also tried to comp our meal, but Data insisted that they didn't have to. Coffee -strong coffee with sweetened milk – was brought out, and they joined us at our table, teasing us about being very obviously in love.

Data, again, did not refute their statement, though in that case it was likely for polite reasons, rather than anything stemming from changes to his psyche.

"It must be an exciting experience to be living on a starship, and dating an officer," Tsage said, her dark eyes sparkling with joy. "I hope my daughter will find such love someday."

"I'm afraid I won't be returning to the ship with Data," I told her. "I'm doing a six-month apprenticeship with the Idyllwild Troupe, and even this weekend is sort of an unexpected gift, but I'll be living in the neighborhood and I'll definitely be back."

"Yes," the older woman said. "You must come back next Saturday, when we do the women's coffee ceremony. You will be our daughter for that day," she said. "Since Tewoldi is busy working in the stars."

"I'd be honored," I answered, accepting her invitation. "But you barely even know me."

"Not yet," she smiled, her accent musical even on those two syllables. "But if, as you say, you are living in the neighborhood, I am certain we will come to know you. And when you become a well-known actress, we will be the first to have your autographed picture on our wall."

She was teasing me, a little, but I didn't mind, and even Data had a hint of something like smug satisfaction on his face. I glanced at the wall, and saw a mix of faces – celebrities and politicians – and allowed myself a second or two to indulge in that dream.

"It will be good for you, to have an adopted family here," Al said. "I'm sure Commander Data will be reassured knowing there are people watching out for you."

We talked with them a while longer, and then left the restaurant, walking back to my apartment at a leisurely pace. "You knew," I accused him, pausing on the sidewalk to kiss him on the cheek. "You _knew_ they'd do that. Exactly how much do you talk about me during the course of an average day?"

"There is no static number, Zoe. When we are waiting for diagnostic results, or in station-keeping on the bridge, we engage in the same kinds of discussions that one is likely to hear in any workplace."

"You complain about spouses and partners, you mean?"

"I do not recall anyone _complaining_ , recently. I was discussing the fact that being in Earth orbit meant being able to see you this weekend, and asked for suggestions of activities you might enjoy."

"You lived here for four years…"

"Yes, and as we have established, I did not socialize much."

"Your classmates got the short end of the stick by not accepting you," I said. "Just thinking about it… I get so… " I clenched my fist and swung it through the air.

"Zoe," Data had to call my name twice before I could focus. "Zoe, it was many years ago, and I prefer to focus on the social interactions, the friends I have _now,_ rather than the memory of my Academy experiences."

"I'm sorry," I said. We had arrived at the outer door to my building, and I hesitated before passing my key-card over the scanner. "So, do you reserve the complaining for your poker games, then?"

"I have… sought advice… about our relationship during poker games."

"Advice? Really?"

"I have no complaints about you, Zoe. While it is true that you sometimes perplex me, and that often confused me when our relationship was first forming, there was never any fault to be found. Only explanations to be discovered."

"Oh." I scanned the key and the door popped open. Data caught it and held it, letting me precede him into the building, and then pulling it closed as if he'd lived with such doors all his life. There was an elevator, but it seemed silly to use it for one story, when neither of us were carrying anything, so I headed up the stairs, smiling as his steps fell into synch with mine. "What kind of advice?"

The door on the landing – the door to my actual apartment – required me to slide the key-card rather than scan it before the door would open. Once Data and I stepped inside, I engaged the locks, as he answered. "I initially solicited advice about your discomfort when we relocated our Saturday Sessions to my quarters, and later, I asked for aid in selecting an appropriate birthday gift. More recently, they provided guidance about how to ask my girlfriend to move in with me."

I put my key-card back into my purse, which I hung from the hook near the front door. "I didn't realize the senior officers of Starfleet's flagship were also a relationship brain trust," I teased lightly.

"They are a remarkably talented group of people," he said. "And they think well of you."

"Lt. Worf doesn't like me."

"Worf has a personality that I believe is best described as 'prickly,' but he has been impressed with all of your interactions with his son, and with the way you have handled yourself since… Melona."

"Alexander's a nice kid," I said. "It's not his fault so much has been thrown at him lately. Does Lt. Worf know… about what happened to me? I mean… Geordi didn't."

"I do not believe so," Data said. "Certainly I did not inform him, and I do not think the counselor did, either."

I nodded. "Okay." Then I smiled. "So, you've seen the living room, and the dining area. The kitchen is through there…" I gestured past the dining nook. "There's a replicator, but I only have a limited number of credits, so there's a tea kettle on the stove and a coffee maker on the counter. Want to see the rest?"

In answer, Data hoisted the bag he'd dropped on the floor earlier. "Please."

We didn't leave the bedroom again until late the next morning.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45454.21**

 **(Saturday, 15 June 2368, 5:48 AM, PDT, San Francisco)**

I woke up from an amazing dream to the sight of a pinkening dawn sky and the familiar warmth of Data's yellow eyes. "Have you been watching me sleep?"

"I have been watching the way the changing light of dawn illuminates your skin," he answered. I had left the blinds open the night before because I'd wanted to see him in the starlight. "The way the different pastels make you glow is… intriguing."

I chuckled softly, and shifted positions so that I could prop my head up with one hand and reach for him with the other. "You look pretty good in morning light, too," I told him, my voice huskier than usual because I was just waking up. I scraped my fingernail very lightly over one of his nipples, and watched it harden to a tiny nub. " _Really_ good, actually."

Data moved slightly, dipping his head to kiss me, darting his tongue between my lips, and teasing my tongue with his.

I shifted more, trying to close the little bit of space between us, chain breathing as we continued to kiss. I trailed my hand down his body and tangled the tips of my fingers in the dark-gold hair between his legs, feeling him press himself into my palm. He was using his free hand to give attention to my breast, but when I moved, he did too, trailing his cool fingers down my side, caressing my backside, and then resting against my thigh for a moment before he nudged his knee between my legs.

"No," I said. "Not this way."

"Zoe?" He froze, and for a fraction of a second, the fear of rejection he denied he could feel was evident on his face. Almost instantly, his features smoothed into their usual configuration, as he realized that I wasn't rejecting him – that I would never do such a thing – but was just altering the dynamic a little.

"The first time we did this, I was afraid I'd have a flashback, and I needed to be in a position where I felt equal to you. I'd like… I'd like to try you being on top. I mean, if it's not too much effort for you to hold your own weight." Two hundred kilograms of android was a lot of mass.

"It is not, but you said you did not wish to be pinned down. I do not wish to cause you distress."

"As long as I can see your face, as long as you'll babble if I need you to, I think I'll be okay. I want… I'm tired of worrying about _how_ we do things. I know I might still have… I could still flash-back. I know I'm asking a lot, but I also know you can find a way to make you being on top not remind me of… to make it _ours_."

Data seemed to gather himself back into himself, as if searching for a way to make the missionary position – the one humanoid sexual position that everyone seemed to default to at one point or another – into something unique to us.

"Lie back," his voice managed to be both soothing and encouraging at once. I rolled onto my back, and he knelt over me, and kissed my lips. "This is already _ours_ ," he said. "Everything we experience together is ours."

He repeated the ritual he had created months before in his bed – our bed – on the _Enterprise_ , the night we'd pulled the stud out of my tongue for good. Small soft kisses on each of my breasts, on my abdomen, over my pubic bone. I knew what Data was doing. He was helping me find that bubble where the only things that existed were him and me.

Data didn't stop his ritual this time. Instead, he moved backwards, placing kisses on the insides of each of my thighs. I felt his breath between my legs, felt the hair there move first from just his breathing, and then from his fingers, his long slender fingers - _God, I loved his hands_ \- petting, parting, teasing.

"You say I taste of cashews, when we kiss, or when you lick my skin," he said, his voice low and intense, as if he were still concerned I might reject him, "I would like to know _your_ flavor. May I taste you here, Zoe?"

It crossed my mind to ask him for clarification. I'd had it on good authority he _couldn't_ taste things, after all, but it wasn't the time to ask. His use of my name, his intense tone, his soft kisses, already had me feeling open and trusting, and honestly, I'd always be curious. " _Carte blanche_ , Data," I reminded him. "I trust you."

He bent his head, and kissed me between the legs the same way he had so often kissed my lips. His tongue darted and danced, finding my center and flirting with it, slow, then fast, until he'd brought me almost to the edge of climax. He made me feel like every single one of my nerves was bathed in warmth. All I could do was _feel._

And then he _flicked_ , and I fell apart in the best way possible, shivering and weeping and deliciously out of control.

I was still trembling when he moved back up the bed, stretching himself along-side me. He used his thumb to wipe my tears away, not questioning why I was crying. "Are you alright?"

I nodded. Speech eluded me. Finally, I managed. "That was... that was amazing... but, I want...more. I need more. I need _you_ … all the way." I felt like someone had hijacked the bulk of my vocabulary, and tiny aftershocks of pleasure were still coursing through me, but he nodded, and stroked my hair, and began to shift his position.

I must have stiffened as he moved, because he halted and met my eyes, reminding me. "I will not pin you. I will stop if you need me to." I wondered if it killed him a little, to have to say it, because it did so for me.

Data had been right about supporting his own weight. His body over mine didn't feel oppressive or frightening. It just felt… comfortable. It felt right.

He entered me with the part of his body that was absolutely _not_ his tongue. Somehow, this position was more intimate than others we'd tried. Maybe because I was more vulnerable. Maybe because there was some vestigial, primal memory connected with it.

"If you bend your knees," he said, "you will be able to participate, and it will be more pleasurable for us both.

For the briefest second, I was back on Lore's ship, and he was forcing my knees back. I closed my eyes against the oncoming flashback, but Data called my name, and I opened them again, and found his eyes, his face, his dear, gentle face. I stretched up to kiss him, tasting a hint of something - me – on his lips. It wasn't gross, but it wasn't my thing, either. "I'm fine," I said. I lifted my knees, and found that he was right, the angle was better, and I could… help.

Data moved inside me; I moved against him. His lips were parted, the way I'd so often seen them when something surprised him, and I felt as though I was cradling his body within mine.

When I found release that time, I felt his own completion barely a second later.

Of my own accord, my hands had been stroking his back, but I lifted one, to ruffle his hair and then smooth it back into place.

"You are alright?" he asked, varying the question slightly, as if he were just making sure instead of really asking.

"I'm fine," I smiled. "I'm a little tired, but I'm fine."

"It is still very early. If you wish to sleep longer, I do not mind."

I laughed softly, feeling myself blushing, "I didn't mean _that_ kind of tired," I wriggled closer to him, "although I am very comfortable."

"You _should_ sleep, Zoe," he said.

"Mmm. Maybe. Are we playing tourist again today?"

"Is that what you wish to do?"

"Honestly?"

"Always."

"I'd like to know if there's something _you_ want to do. You lived here for four years as a cadet. You've been back for more than one leadership seminar or science conference. You _must_ have left the Academy grounds at some point. Wasn't there _any_ place that was special to you?"

"There was one place," he said, "where I would often spend time when I was overwhelmed by growth in my positronic net. I believe you would appreciate it," he said. "If you would like to go."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?"

His lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. "I believe I will surprise you."

"Mmm. I like your surprises."

"I am gratified to hear that, but I believe you will enjoy this one more if you are better rested."

"You just want to watch me sleep some more," I accused. "Are you memorizing my sleep habits for when you miss me?" I used a tone of voice that made it obvious that I was teasing.

"Perhaps," he responded, also teasing a little.

"Lie flat," I suggested. "And move your arm." He complied, and I made myself comfortable, laying my head in the crook of his arm, and resting my arm across his body. "If I'm not up by nine-thirty, wake me."

Data kissed the top of my head. "I will do so."

I closed my eyes, and let myself relax into the subtle _thrum_ of his internal systems.

 **(=A=)**

"The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art?" I asked Data as we arrived at our destination. The most recent incarnation of the museum featured a lot of bottle-green glass and exposed titanium sub-structures. "This is the place you're most drawn to?" I don't know why I was surprised. I knew he painted, after all. It just seemed incongruous, somehow, with the science-minded man I knew.

"Specifically the wing devoted to non-representational pieces" he clarified. "Shall we?"

"Lead on, lover-mine," I encouraged, grinning when his eyes widened in response to my snark-laced endearment.

"As you wish," he said, and directed me up the stairs into the building, and toward the entry for members.

"You're a _member_ of the museum?" I couldn't help but goggle at him. "Seriously? I mean, I know you paint, but you're not back here that often."

"I have been a member for many years," he confirmed, registering me as his guest for the day, and then leading me further into the brightly lit space. Our voices should have echoed, but someone had apparently found a way to make acoustic dampeners invisible, because there was no echo, despite the size of the main lobby.

We browsed the visiting exhibits first – including a display of contemporary Nausicaan sculpture, which fascinated me with its sharp angles and spiky protrusions. "It looks just like the way you'd expect their art to look," I observed.

"Indeed," Data agreed.

Eventually, he steered me toward the wing he had mentioned earlier – the 'non-representational' art that formed the permanent collection. We looked at pieces by Klee and Kandinsky, but it was at the very end of that gallery, at a solitary bench placed in front of a canvas sporting black lines forming squares and rectangles, with occasional pops of primary colors, where we stopped.

The painting was actually fairly complex, though it seemed simple at first glance. As well, it managed to be both artistic and architectural; I could see how an android would find it appealing. I looked at the identifying tag, and read it out loud. "Piet Mondrian, _Composition C_ , 1920." I sat down on the bench, and Data joined me. "It kind of reminds me of a simplified version of the inside of your head," I said.

"I had not considered that. I am simply…" He trailed off, lacking the ability to expression

"Connected to it?"

"Yes."

"The print you had in your quarters… that's one of his, also, isn't it?"

"In _our_ quarters," he corrected. "It is a print of _Tableau I_."

I scooted closer to him, sliding my arm around his waist and leaning my head on his shoulder. "Did you take it down because it reminded you of Lal?" I don't know what made me ask that; it just seemed logical.

"In a sense," he said.

"You should put it back up. You should put her picture back up, too. Maybe not the wall-sized one, but… the holo-pic, at least."

"Zoe…?"

"She's part of your life, Data. Part of _you._ "

His arm came around me, and squeezed lightly. "I will do as you ask."

I smiled. "Good."

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45460.80**

 **(Sunday, 17 June 2368, 3:44 PM PDT, San Francisco, Earth)**

"It's good to be home," I said, kicking off my shoes and sprawling on my back, on the bed. "Would you open the window a little please? It's stuffy in here."

Data crossed the room and pressed the button to slide the window open. Then he sat down on the bed next to me. "Zoe…" he began. "I am afraid it is time for me to return to the _Enterprise_."

He'd been asked to return a few hours early to investigate the truth behind the accident with the cadet flight squad Wes was in. They'd held it until after the commencement exercises out of courtesy to the graduating class.

Graduation had been more subdued than I'd expected. I hadn't expected to go, but when Data said he was going, I'd reluctantly agreed. Captain Picard's speech had actually pretty good, and while the lunch and mixer afterwards were a bit understated, and moods were understandably somber, it had been interesting meeting some of the instructors who had been at the august institution that was Starfleet Academy, many of whom had been teaching there for decades.

I'd been a little nervous, actually, being there as 'Commander Data's girlfriend,' but no one seemed to even notice my age or care about my civilian status, and the one person who did realize how painfully young I was turned out to be one of the few instructors who had not only lobbied for Data's admission, but had recommended he be commissioned, and remained something of a champion for him over the years.

Commander McInerny had smiled at me, shaken my hand, and said, "Call me Rose," before asking about my plans for the future. Before leaving us to mingle with others, she'd given me a head-to-toe appraisal and announced, albeit only loudly enough for Data and me to hear, "It makes sense for someone who's functionally immortal and young-ish in the ways of humanity to gravitate toward someone a bit young. I'm glad Data's found someone who appreciates him. Be happy, you two."

But that had been hours before. Late afternoon had come, the party had ended, the investigation and tribunal had begun, and Data's skills were required.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed so I was sitting next to him. "Right this minute?"

"As soon as I am packed and ready. I am sorry I cannot stay."

I shook my head. "I knew we only had the weekend. I'm glad I got to see you at all, and having you here helped make _this_ place feel more like home."

"Thank you for saying so." Data got up, and moved to the bathroom, shedding the dress uniform he'd worn to the graduation, and replacing it with his standard duty attire. Then he began putting the few things he'd brought into his weekender. "I will be back as soon as I am able."

"I know." I slid off the bed and moved to stand in front of him.

"I will try to beam down before the ship breaks orbit, but I cannot prom – "

I silenced him with a kiss, followed by the repeated words, "I know."

He picked up his bag with one hand, and put his other arm around my waist. We walked to the front door that way, and shared one more kiss.

"Zoe," he began, holding me at arms' length, staring into my eyes. "I – "

"I know," I said yet again. "I love you."

"Etudes," he said, pulling me close again and kissing the top of my head. I got the sense he was reminding us both. "Etudes."

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45461.03**

 **(Monday, 17 June 2368, 5:44 PM PDT)**

 **From: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats, Unit 2-A.**

My Zoe,

I had hoped to find you home, and ask about your first official day with the Idyllwild Troupe, but my presence is required on the bridge.

Our conversation at the museum prompted me to arrange the delivery of a few items: the print is a copy of the same _Tableau I_ that hangs in our home here on the ship, and the other pictures are of us – to remind you that we will be together soon.

I am devoted to you.

Yours,

Data

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45462.44**

 **(Tuesday, 18 June 2368, 6:05 AM PDT)**

The comm system wouldn't normally have woken me, but I'd purchased a personal communication device after my first day at the rehearsal studio the night before, and routed all of my calls to it – just in case.

When it began buzzing at me in the pre-light of dawn, I cursed into my bedroom, but I answered it anyway.

 _"Zoe, I apologize for waking you… you are in bed."_

Annoyance faded at the sight of Data's face on the tiny screen. "Lach recommended we all get personal communicators. They use less power and take less space than padds, and make it easier for important calls to come through."

 _"Ah."_

"You _know_ there's no one more important than you," I said, flirting with him a little. "Mom comes in second… maybe even third."

 _"Thank you, Zoe."_

Something in his voice told me this wasn't a dinner invitation. "The ship is leaving?"

 _"This afternoon, yes. This is the only time I could guarantee speaking to you 'in person.'"_

"So you found the information you needed. Is Wes… are they expelling him."

 _"I do not know what result our data will cause. I would suggest that you consider calling him in a day or so. I believe he may need a friend."_

"I'll do that," I said. I took a breath, then forced a smile. "I love the pictures. And the print. Thank you. It was a lovely surprise."

 _"I cannot explain it,"_ he said, _"but I find that the notion of both of us viewing the same painting is… reassuring."_

"The 'notion,' huh?" I teased. "I'm corrupting your vocabulary, sir."

 _"Perhaps,"_ he agreed.

We were both quiet for a long moment, but I broke first, "Do you have a few more minutes? You _have_ to hear how my first day went."

 _"Please,"_ he answered, his features brightening just a little. _"Tell me."_

I settled myself against my pile of pillows, and began to talk, filling about half an hour with a detailed description of meeting everyone else in the troupe, scheduling coaching sessions with the one of the voice teachers contracted to the company… getting the scripts for the three plays we'd be doing. "One's a musical," I explained. "I'd forgotten how much work – and how much fun – musicals are."

When we ended the call, I was wistful, but when I went into the bathroom to start my morning, I noticed that he'd left a brush, and a travel set of his preferred bath products, and - to my utter delight – a container of pomade.

Somehow, knowing that these bits of him were in my bathroom did as much as the pictures he'd sent to reassure _me._

I _could_ do this, after all.

* * *

 **Notes:** First, this chapter takes place after "Violations," which is referenced in Zoe's question about Troi, but it takes place _during_ "The First Duty," which I've moved because otherwise it doesn't fit into the calendar in a place that makes sense for a college graduation. This is one of those times that TNG's utter refusal to write arcs works in my favor. Data's conversation about his grandfather is a reference to "The Schizoid Man."

 _Nonna_ and _Nonno_ are traditional Italian names for Grandma and Grandpa. Both Zoe's mother (Emily Morelli Harris) and her stepmother (Gia Viglione Harris) are from Italian families, but their similarities end there. _Papa_ can be father, but is sometimes used for grandfather, as well. _Amichetto_ is one of the many words for 'boyfriend.' _Capisce_ means 'understand.' It's used, colloquially, without any modifiers, much like the Spanish _comprendo?_

Data and Zoe share a meal that wasn't explicitly Ethiopian, but was similar to it, in chapter 43 ("Wallowing") of _Crush_.

Mondrian's _Tableau I_ is the painting Data shows Lal in "The Offspring." It's seen in his quarters on and off throughout the show, typically on an easel. SFMOMA doesn't have any Mondrian in its current permanent collection, but 350 years from now? Who knows?


	2. Allemande

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Star Trek: The Next Generation, the_** **U.S.S. Enterprise** ** _, and all the canon characters belong to CBS/Paramount. Anything else is mine. Reviews are better than chocolate; don't be shy._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Also, significant portions of this story are presented in an epistolary format (letters, vid-calls, messaging). Unless otherwise noted, all letters are video messages._**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **II. Allemande**

 _An allemande is a renaissance and baroque dance, and one of the most popular instrumental dance styles in baroque music, with notable examples by Couperin, Purcell, Bach and Handel. It is often the first movement of a baroque suite of dances, paired with a subsequent courante, though it is sometimes preceded by an introduction or prelude._

 **Stardate 45464.22**

 **(Tuesday, 18 June 2368, 21:44 hours, ship's time.)**

 _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

With the most recent theatrical production over, the officers' poker game has been moved to Tuesday nights once more. This week, the players include himself, Dr. Crusher, Commander Riker, and Counselor Troi. Lt. Worf is serving a dog watch on the bridge, one from which Data will relieve him at midnight.

It is the doctor's deal, and she passes out the cards with delicate efficiency, her long fingers and tapered nails flicking the pieces of laminated cardstock with the same surgical precision she uses when operating on patients. He knows this, both because he has witnessed it, and because he has experienced her skills first-hand.

 _"Geordi was right, Data; this chip is definitely not coming out of your head."_ He remembers the scene with perfect clarity – himself lying on one of the exam beds in sickbay, Geordi and Captain Picard watching from a distance, and Zoe standing nearby, holding his hand, as much, he knew, because her presence grounded him, as because she needed to be there.

"Data, it's your bet." The counselor's voice jars him from the memory, and he is momentarily startled. Had he actually been distracted?

"Data, are you alright?" The doctor's voice is warm, maternal. She is not asking as his sometime physician, but as his friend.

"I apologize," he says. "My focus was elsewhere." It is a difficult admission. As an android, he should not lose focus merely because he is thinking of his lover. He glances at his as-yet-unseen cards. "I will see the bet, and raise it fifty."

Play continues for another round, the conversation mostly centered around the game until Commander Riker asks, "Did you have a chance to see Zoe before we broke orbit? How's she doing at Idyllwild?"

"I did not have the opportunity to return to San Francisco after leaving on Sunday," he answers. "However, we spoke this morning, and she seemed extremely upbeat about her first day at work."

"Emily said she was a little blue when they spoke before the weekend," Counselor Troi puts in. "She isn't still having nightmares?"

"She mentioned being unable to settle into sleep during her first days alone in her apartment, but she did not mention any nightmares," Data tells them. "I believe she merely needed time to adjust to her new surroundings," he adds. "Now that she is busy with classes and rehearsals, I believe she will regain her footing."

"You're probably right," Troi confirms. She interrupts the conversation to raise the standing bet by another fifty, and then continues, "How are _you_ adjusting? I know she only moved in with you a week before she left, but – "

"Excuse me, Zoe moved in with you?" the commander's voice and facial expression convey both that he is surprised, and that he is impressed. "Congratulations, Data. I assume Emily was okay with that?"

"Commander Harris made it clear that she trusted Zoe to make her own decision in this matter." His lips quirk into the hint of a smile that his girlfriend is usually the one to elicit. "I believe her declaration that such things were 'no longer her call' had much to do with the fact that Zoe and I inadvertently walked in on Emily and Professor Benoit in the middle of an amorous encounter on their living room couch."

He expects that his statement will provoke expressions of amusement, and he is not incorrect; both of the women smirk, and Commander Riker guffaws loudly. "Go, Emily!" he declares, which makes the counselor and the doctor dissolve into fits of giggles.

Data understands exactly what his colleague means, but time with Zoe has taught him a few things about humor. Affecting his best version of the expression he knows people interpret as 'guileless' he says, "Commander, perhaps you are confused. Commander Harris is not present, but even if she were, I would still be uncertain; where exactly would you wish her to go?"

He makes a mental note to include this conversation, and the riotous laughter that ensued, in his next missive to his girlfriend.

He makes a further note to assure her that he did, indeed, 'win scads' at that night's game.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45483.47**

 **(Tuesday, 25 June 2368, 22:51 hours, ship's time)**

 **From: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats, Apt. 2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

 _ **This message is text-only.**_

Dearest Zoe,

Please forgive the lack of a visual element to this message. I am standing watch on the bridge, having agreed to cover for Lt. Worf so that he could attend the officer's poker game. His ability to socialize at night has been much reduced since Alexander's return, but after some grumbling he has found a willing babysitter in Keiko O'Brien. I believe the boy is somewhat of a companion to her, and a help with Molly, especially since the Chief is also at tonight's game.

I regret that I will not be able to contact you via subspace this evening, as I am remaining on duty, in command of the bridge during the night watch. Assuming that your schedule still allows, I will contact you at our regular time on Sunday morning.

The ship has just left the Moab system. I believe I mentioned that we found a colony of genetically engineered humans there, each of whom was literally bred to their destined position and purpose. At first, I found the concept of knowing from one's first awareness what one was meant to do, to _be_ , somewhat assuring. However, as we got to know the colonists better, I determined that living in such a society was extremely… limiting.

My determination was supported by the case of a woman named Hannah Bates. She and Geordi became close during our time at Moab IV, and she was among twenty-three of the colonists who joined the ship when we left.

I am not certain it was obvious in my last letter, but I have rearranged the art on our walls, so that when I am sitting at my console, I can see the Mondrian over our dining table, and the painting I made for your birthday – the one of us – over our couch. The painting of you with your cello, I have given to your mother; I hope you do not object. She feels your absence at least as keenly as I do, and she found humor in the exasperated expression on your face in that portrait.

I did not anticipate that adjusting to your absence would be difficult for me. I have said goodbye to many crewmates either when I have transferred from ship to ship, or when others have left the _Enterprise_ for other assignments, and while I did experience a sense of absence in all of those cases, I believe it was more the loss of familiarity that caused such a response.

With you, with your absence, it is as if a vital component of my programming has been… deleted. My subroutines attempt to compensate for the lack, but my responses are diminished, my focus is less efficient, and when I look around our quarters, it is as though they have temporarily decreased in what you would call 'hominess.'

Even Spot seems… subdued.

Ordinarily, finding myself at 'loose ends,' I would invite Geordi to engage in a recreational activity, but he is absorbed by the presence of Ms. Bates, and I have no wish to deprive either of them of the other's company.

It has been ten days, five hours, seventeen seconds since we were together, but if I were to disregard my internal chronometer, and someone asked me how long we have been apart, I do not believe it would seem a long enough time. I am curious: do _you_ perceive time in so subjective a fashion?

Perhaps there is something wrong with me, and I should perform a self-diagnostic.

Or, perhaps, this is what it truly means to miss someone who is not dead but merely away. It is… an intriguing experience, and yet, I find I do not wish to explore it with any more depth than is absolutely necessary.

In any case, the ship is now en route to the Epsilon system, tracking subspace signals that give every sign of being intentional.

I look forward to speaking with you on Sunday, and to hearing all the details of your experiences in San Francisco that do not 'fit' into your recordings.

I also look forward to the time when you are once again at home on the _Enterprise_.

As always, I remain

Your devoted Data.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45487.04**

 **(Thursday, 27 June 2368, 06:11 hours, ship's time)**

Data's comm-badge chirps within thirty seconds of his return to his quarters that morning. He taps it, and acknowledges the signal.

 _\- Sir, this is Ensign Barnett. You have a subspace call from San Francisco. It's Zoe._

Ensign Barnett, he knows, is also Ray Barnett, his girlfriend's 'non-biological brother' and swim partner.

"Put it through to my console, Ensign," he says.

\- _Aye sir, one moment._

It takes fewer than twelve point two seconds for the call to be rerouted to Data's console, but he is already waiting when the screen resolves into the familiar features of the woman who has invaded his life and his programming, and whose invasion he continues to welcome.

"Zoe," he greets her. "Are you well?"

 _"Busy,"_ she answers, _"tired. Worried about this devastatingly handsome man I share a home with. I mean, really, I thought_ _I_ _would be the one of us who was gloomy and lonely and pining, but your last letter was as broody as I've ever seen you."_

"I do not wish you to be lonely," he tells her, avoiding admitting the degree to which he misses her.

 _"I don't want_ _you_ _to be broody,"_ she counters. _"Look, the only reason I'm not a mewling pile of goo is that I've managed to fill almost every waking hour since you left. Also, you left bits of yourself all over my apartment."_ She blushes faintly, confessing, _"I haven't changed the sheets because everything still smells like… well, like us, actually, but it's the you-part of it I don't want to destroy. I mean, if Lach wasn't exhausting all of us, I wouldn't be sleeping, except I can go home and wrap myself in Essence of Data."_ Her blush deepens. _"I totally shouldn't have admitted that."_

His perception of distance and sense of separation retracted. "But you _are_ sleeping?" he asks. "You are not experiencing nightmares?" He knows that her dark dreams come and go. The fact that she had been nightmare free when last he saw her, does not preclude the night terrors' return.

Zoe lowers her eyes, avoiding looking at the camera, at him. When she raises them again, she is suddenly paler _. "I've had the beginnings of a couple of nightmares,"_ she tells him _. "I've been able to wake myself up, though. Getting back to sleep is more difficult. Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that."_

"I am not able to take leave right now, Zoe, or I would come."

 _"That's sweet, but, actually not what I meant. What I'd like to you do is a little silly, but totally not travel-intensive."_

He cannot conceive of any request that he would not grant were it in his power to do so "Tell me."

 _"Would you… would you make a recording of yourself singing or playing the violin or guitar? Something I can listen to if I can't fall asleep…?"_

Data had expected something much more challenging than a mere recording. "I would be happy to," he tells her. He is already considering a list of songs.

 _"I need you to do something else,"_ she tells him. _"If I were there, I'd use midnight tea and kisses and cuddles to shake the broodiness out of the deepest levels of your encryption, but I'm not, so I need you to go hang out with Counselor Troi tomorrow or Saturday. Trounce her at chess, or let her feed you chocolate."_

"You are ascribing to me an emotional condition I do not have," he protested.

 _"Loneliness isn't an emotional condition, it's a social one. Brooding is also a social behavior. And if you weren't really experiencing them, you wouldn't have written a letter telling me how much you missed me."_ Data notices his girlfriend's expression turn to one of fondness. _"Since when do you call me 'dearest?'_ _That_ _seems awfully close to an emotional state."_

"Dearest," he recites, as if he had prepared for this question. (And he has, but Zoe does not need to know that.) "Closest, most cherished, most intimate, most precious…" He trails off, seeing the glistening tears in her eyes. "Zoe…" but he is at a loss for how to stop her tears from so far away.

 _"I love you,"_ she says. _"I hate that you miss me enough to be all broody, but I love that you changed the art in our quarters, and even though I resisted calling them 'ours' until I'd actually moved, it's always made me feel all warm and special when you used that word."_

Zoe lifts her hand to touch the viewer, and Data understands that he is to do the same. The Vulcan bonding ritual runs through one of the upper levels of his consciousness as the images of their palms meet. _Never and always, touching and touched._

"I am devoted to you," he replies. "My Zoe."

 _"Come visit soon?"_ she asks. _"I don't think separation is good for either of us."_

"No," he agrees, "separation is sub-optimal, and, as we discussed before you left, I will visit whenever I can."

Zoe flashes him the smile he keeps attempting to paint, but not quite getting right, and then the connection is severed.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45496.80**

 **(Sunday, 30 June 2368, 19:54 hours, ship's time)**

He remembers the chess game. He lost, and not because he let the dark-haired woman win. He remembers making the Samarian Sunset for her. He does not recall working behind the bar in this establishment, but he seems to be good at it, so he continues until others come and inform him that his name is 'Data,' and that he is, in fact, the operations officer of the vessel they all inhabit.

Very quickly, he also recognizes that he is _other_ in a way the varying races represented in the ship's complement are not. He is… non-organic. He is… machine.

 _Android_.

The word flows through a collection of positronic relays to connect with him. "I am Data. I am an android." He speaks the words aloud to no one, tasting them. Yes, they seem correct.

At some point he finds himself with 'down time' – apparently he is not merely a tool, but an officer on equal footing with these organic beings, and therefore has regular duty shifts, as they do – and he finds himself in the rooms assigned to him.

According to the ship's roster, another being, organic, _human_ , also occupies these rooms, but while it is obvious that his living space is a shared dwelling, the other's presence is starkly… missing.

The orange cat – Spot! – comes to greet him, and he understands he is meant to feed her. She devours her food then twines herself around his legs, making it clear that it is time for him to express his affection for her.

Somehow, the act of stroking the animal's soft fir is reassuring. He feels more settled inside himself, though he is still uncertain of his history, his status.

The painting above the couch depicts himself and a woman with chestnut hair. He searches for her name, their relationship, anything to explain why she apparently lives with him, but is nowhere to be found, and is frustrated by blocks on his systems.

Almost beneath his consciousness, subroutines begin routing new paths around the blocks, programming and positrons chip away at the memory records being denied him.

The comm system signals an incoming message, and he goes to read it recognizing the animated young woman in the video recording as the same young woman in his painting.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45497.39**

 **(Monday, 1 July 2368, 01:05 AM PDT, local time)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats Apt. 2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Data,

I'm so sorry I missed our subspace date. I missed talking with you in real time, instead of just via vid recordings and text letters, but you'll appreciate the reason.

This morning – well, technically yesterday morning - at ten, someone was banging on my apartment door. I wasn't thrilled because Annette was here for the weekend and we'd stayed up really late talking and watching vids and eating junk food. It was so good to see someone from home.

Anyway, someone was at my door, so I went to check thinking it was probably a friend of the guys in 2-B, too hung over to know where he was, but it was Lach. Yes, my director, Lachlan Meade had come directly to my door.

He didn't even wait for an invitation, just barged in and announced. "I need you to come with me to the studio right now."

I insisted he let me change into real clothes and grab a coffee first, and he said he'd have coffee fetched in, but clothes were acceptable. "Bring something dressy," he ordered.

So I bid a hasty goodbye to Annette, who was entirely too amused, and did a quick change, and grabbed my black dress and shoes and necklace and earrings you gave me, and let Lach drag me into the flitter he had waiting.

Roger, Mykel, Oberlyne – her name sounds just like the music school in Ohio, I know, but it's spelled completely differently – just ask her! - and Simon were there, as well. It turns out the entertainment director from the dinner theater on Hunter's Moon had a show cancel, and heard Lach was workshopping his tour shows, and demanded to see the musical.

Now, we've only been rehearsing for two weeks, but _Songs for a New World_ is a concert piece, a song-cycle, and if we have the music in front of us we sort of know what we're doing. Lach told the H-M people that, and they said, "Show us anyway," so there we were, dressed up and on stage for an impromptu command performance.

Afterward, the entertainment director – Pezuan Grylle, she's part Orion, I think – took us all to dinner, and that's when she asked Lach if we'd come and do the show in her theatre for three weeks, even though we're still workshopping it.

And we leave at noon!

So, I have to pack, and I probably won't be able to contact you very much in the next couple of weeks, but I didn't want you to worry.

I love you.

I miss you.

Cuddle Spot for me.

\- _Your_ Zoe.

P.S. We'll be staying at the Archer Hotel.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45510.73**

 **(Friday, 5 July 2368, 22:17 hours, ship's time)**

It is several days before the crew solves the mystery of their collective - and extremely selective – amnesia, during which Data spends all of his off-duty hours reviewing every piece of correspondence (all saved for… well, he does not know why he saved the files when he possesses a perfect memory record of each of them) he and Zoe L. Harris have ever exchanged.

He comes away from the experience with the perception that, android or not, he is exceptionally lucky to be the recipient of such passionate affection.

He is not completely certain that he gives back as much as he receives, but if he is to judge from Zoe's missives, she does not find him… lacking.

When access to his blocked files has been restored, and the _Enterprise_ is under the proper command again, when Captain Picard has done as much as possible to make things right after summarily blasting the Lysian ship out of the stars, he approaches the senior officer with a request, one that is granted without pause.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45532.60**

 **(Saturday, 13 July 2368, 22:26 hours, local time)**

 **Hunter's Moon**

Data times his arrival at the engineered world that is second only to Risa as a romantic getaway so that he can dock his shuttle, clear Arrivals, and be at the theater just as the final curtain for that evening's performance of _Idyllwild Theatre Presents 'Songs for a New World'_ descends. He has not told Zoe that he is coming, but he has coordinated his visit with the burly Scotsman who is directing the entire tour. Lachlan Meade, it turned out was more than a bit of a romantic.

"Commander Data, welcome lad," the wild-haired man greets him at the stage door. "We've an overly enthusiastic house tonight," he continues. "Yer lassling is taking another bow."

"Thank you," he says. "Is there somewhere I can wait for her?"

"I'll escort ye to her dressing room."

The man's brogue, Data notices, thins and thickens, apparently at will. If he were to analyze the man's speech, he would likely find that his real accent is almost non-existent, and the brogue is an affectation. He chooses, however, not to initiate such an analysis. Instead he repeats, "Thank you," and allows the older man to lead him through the backstage warren to the dressing room with Zoe's name on it.

He pauses for a moment, staring at the door. He is, of course, aware that Idyllwild is a professional theatre troupe, and that Zoe's presence in it is vastly different than her participation in the theatrical group on the _Enterprise_ , or even her roles in community theatre productions on her homeworld of Centaurus, but seeing her name on the door is somehow impactful.

It is hard evidence that they exist, now, in very different worlds.

"Well, go in lad," Meade urges. "She won't be nearly as surprised if you're hovering about like a stage-door johnny. Ye've already _got_ the lass, haven't ye?"

"Indubitably," he responds, and steps inside.

The dressing room holds a small loveseat, a vanity with a chair, a folding screen with clothing hanging on it, and, behind a closed door, a bathroom. Data notices that Zoe has brought one of the pictures of the two of them with her on this trip – the framed image sits on her dressing table next to a vase of flowers. The card, on display in the vase, is signed from her father.

Data wonders if he should have thought to bring or send flowers of his own.

He hears voices on the other side of the door.

"Good show, tonight, Zee," a young male voice said. "If I wasn't totally in love with Jeremy, I'd totally have fallen for you after our duet."

"Oh, sweet talker," he hears his girlfriend respond. "You're only saying that because you know I'm off limits." He recognizes both the teasing lilt and the underlying wistfulness in her voice, two slightly discordant notes that manage to harmonize because they are in _her_ voice. The latter, he reflects, has been far too present in her speech this summer.

"See you tomorrow," the male voice calls out, farther away, this time.

"Give my love to Jer," Zoe answers, as she opens the door. He is standing in the middle of the room, watching her entrance, watching her expression shift from tired satisfaction to disbelief, and then joy. "Data!? You're here! Oh, my god, you're really here!" It seems that instead of walking across the room she flies into his arms.

He does not mind. He is merely gratified to have her, warm and real, in his embrace. He lowers his head to breathe in the scent of her, the sweet fruity aroma of her shampoo, the slightly muskier odor of her sweat. He kisses the top of her head.

"You're really here," Zoe repeats, the words muffled against his chest. She lifts her head away to meet his eyes. "You should've told me you were coming. I would have…" She does not complete her sentence. "Actually, there's nothing I could have done that would be better than this." She slides her hands up his chest, letting them linger on his shoulders a moment before clasping them behind his neck, and then she stretches up to meet his lips with hers.

Their kiss, Data reflects, is something akin to coming home.

When they finally move apart, Zoe barrages him with questions: "When did you get here? Are you just here to visit, or is something wrong? How long are you staying? You're staying with me, aren't you? Did anyone know you were coming?"

He answers them in order. "I arrived at the theatre during your last curtain call. The only thing that could be said to be 'wrong' is that we have been apart. I must leave on Wednesday morning. I would prefer to stay with you, if you are amenable, and…" here he hesitates, unwilling to risk her wrath. "I did arrange my visit with Mr. Meade."

But Zoe is not angry. Instead, she favors him with a watery smile. "I'm going to kill him for not telling me, but I'll hug him first."

She moves, then, to sit at her dressing table, beginning the process of removing her make-up. He has watched her perform such actions at home on the _Enterprise_ , but somehow, he is seeing her through new eyes.

"So, I don't know if you have specific plans – " she begins.

Data interrupts, "I do not."

"Well, we had two shows today, so my routine is to go back to the hotel, take a bath, and order from the replicator." She meets his eyes in the mirror and invites coyly, "You could join me for one or both." But she does not give him time to respond, continuing with, "I usually meet Oberlyne and Lach – they're actually a couple, have been for ages – for brunch at this great little place down the street on Sundays, and then we have a matinee – if Lach hasn't arranged a comp for you, we have to handle that."

"A 'comp?'"

"Complimentary ticket," she explains. "Then after show the whole cast and whichever spouses, partners and children are around go out for Chinese food. Sometimes some of the VIP audience members join us, sometimes not, but it's always fun. After that we all go our separate ways on Mondays and Tuesdays – resting, exploring what HM has to offer, reading. We don't have to do any of it, but I'd love for you to meet everyone."

They are, Data realizes, at a sort of crossroads. The patterns they establish now will echo throughout their relationship. "I believe," he says after a fraction of a second's thought, "that the wisest course of action would be to follow your established routine. While I am here on leave, you are working. Whether we are staying in your apartment in San Francisco, in a hotel while you are on tour, or in our quarters on the _Enterprise_ , unless we are both 'on vacation,' we must act as though we are at home."

All traces of the stage make-up gone, Zoe leaves the chair, pauses to kiss him again, and then darts behind the folding screen to change clothing, returning in a pair of jeans and a loose V-neck sweater.

"There's a part of me that wants to indulge in amazing things – expensive restaurants or touristy stuff – but, you're right. There's enough 'special' in just being together, and I don't want to feel like we're in some competition about whose life is better."

She slings her purse and carryall over one shoulder, and wraps the other arm around him. "The hotel's across the street; do you have a bag?"

"The desk clerk is holding it for me," he tells her, copying the placement of her arm with his own, then adjusting the position to better accommodate their disparate heights.

Thus entwined, they leave the theatre, cross the street to the hotel, releasing each other long enough to fetch his bags and have a second key-card issued 'just in case', and then enter the 'lift to Zoe's floor.

The room is well appointed, but not fussy, and Zoe locks the door as soon as they are inside. "My usual routine is bath first, then food," she says. "Because I always feel grimy after two shows, and that way if I crash hard after dinner, at least I don't wake up feeling gross. You could," she suggests, "come talk to me while I soak."

There is a low stool already in the bathroom and he sits upon it, watching as she fills the tub with hot, sudsy water, sheds her clothing, steps in, and sinks down. When he returns to the _Enterprise_ , Data thinks, he will paint Zoe this way: pink from steam and mostly obscured by soap bubbles.

Thirty point four seven minutes later, his girlfriend releases the drain stopper, and leaves the tub, wrapping herself in a fluffy white bathrobe, and sliding her feet into matching slippers. They replicate a light dinner – a chilled soup called _gazpacho_ , mango-peach salsa, and blue corn chips – which he tastes, but she eats. "I'm always starving on Saturday nights," she explains, "but if I eat anything heavy I wake up sick."

He marvels that she has discovered these new patterns in her life in only a month. He marvels, also, that despite a hint of new maturity, she is still, intrinsically, _his_ Zoe.

After she has finished eating and the dinnerware has been recycled - after she completes her evening routine in the bathroom, and he takes a few minutes to complete his own, forgoing the extra robe hanging behind the door, and exiting the room nude, Data meets her at the side of the tall hotel bed, so high there are steps to get into it. "Let me," he requests.

"Data?"

"In analyzing all of the ways I have experienced your absence," he explains, "I have concluded that I miss your presence in general, but I also have specific things which absences are more keenly perceived. I miss your hair – its scent and texture, your voice, and our conversations. I miss the heat of your bare skin, and the rhythm of your pulse." His list is given in much the same tone that he would list the characteristics of a spatial anomaly while on the bridge, but he trusts that his girlfriend will understand that in listing these meaningful things, these intimate things, he is also giving her more of himself.

He lifts her onto the bed, keeping his hands on her hips as he continues, "I miss the way we fit together when we join." He unties the belt of her robe, and opens the garment, but does not push it from her shoulders.

"Data…"

He performs their ritual in reverse, kissing her between her legs, first, and then moving upward, placing kisses on her belly, her breasts, each of her shoulders, her throat, and finally claiming her lips as he joins her in the plush bedding and rolls the pair of them so that she is on top of him, the robe shrouding both their forms. He can feel that her pulse has accelerated and see that her pupils have dilated. He can hear that her breathing has shallowed slightly, and he marvels at how readily Zoe responds to his touch.

He does not have – _cannot_ have – favorites of anything, let alone sexual positions, but if pressed, Data would admit that when he thinks about engaging in sexual intimacy with this woman, she is almost always looking down at him, as she is now, with her hair loose and wild and brushing his bare skin as she lowers her face to his to capture his lips.

She pauses after those first kisses, even though he is obviously ready for her to reposition herself. "Data, I want to ask you something, and I don't know how to phrase it well. I'm… you know I don't have a ton of experience…"

His hands are still on her hips, not gripping, just resting. "We are not so different in that respect," he reminds her.

"No, but… I don't have a database of programmed techniques to draw from. I'm sorry… should I even bring that up? Does that ruin the mood?" Data suspects that her concern is related to the knowledge that people often speculate about his sexual prowess. He has heard the gossip - starships are close communities after all - but he typically chooses to ignore it.

He would, he thinks, be 'touched' by her concern, if he could feel it. As it is, the question, because it comes from her, _warms_ him, slightly. "Zoe, it is fine. I understand that you are asking in order to improve our relationship, to form a better understanding. _Your_ curiosity is welcome."

She sits back on her haunches on top of him, allowing the robe to fall backwards, away from her shoulders. She frees one hand from the voluminous material and uses her fingertips to circle his nipples as she (apparently) tries to find the words she wishes to use.

"The first time we made love, you said you couldn't climax just from my hand. Is it because your programming dictates intercourse, or is there some other reason? I mean… you've told me how many - how few? - partners you've had… is it possible there's another reason hand-jobs didn't work?"

His experience with his human associates and his observation of the few adolescent males he knows – Wesley Crusher preeminent among them – is that most humanoid males would find it awkward to answer such a question. "I only know that I cannot climax when I use my own hands." A part of him, a deep-down subroutine, causes an inward cringe, waiting for her to laugh at the concept of a machine attempting masturbation.

She does not laugh.

Instead she leans forward and runs her fingers through his hair as she says, "It's not that I particularly want you to come that way, but more… that morning in San Francisco, when you made love to me as the sun rose… you said you wanted to taste me…" Her face darkens with the hint of a blush and her eyes direct his attention downward. "… _there._ And then later you suggested a position that would be more pleasurable for _both_ of us."

"I am not certain what you are asking, Zoe."

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at…" She stops. Takes a deep breath. "Mostly, you're the one who makes love to me. I want… I want to make it a better experience for you, but I'm also… as you said then, I know the taste of your kisses and your skin, but if… if hands won't work, will it work if I use _my_ tongue? I mean… you have kinds of control I don't, don't you? Can I… Will you let me _try?_ "

Data feels his eyes go wide as understanding floods through him. "There is no 'better,' Zoe, there is only 'different.' When you gave me _carte blanche_ , I thought you understood that it was reciprocal. You may try – _we_ will try – anything you wish."

Above him, Zoe's eyes glitter, and her right eyebrow quirks slightly the way it always does when she accepts a challenge. He thinks of it as her 'fierce' look. Wordlessly, she presses herself against him, kissing his lips, and then trailing kisses down his body. It is not the ritualistic pattern he uses on her. Rather, he senses, she is exploring, cataloguing his reactions in much the same way he has committed hers to his memory engrams.

When her hair brushes his nipples, he twitches slightly, his sexuality programming becoming fully engaged, and the stimulus from _this_ woman investigating his body with her familiar hands, and equally familiar mouth, but in new, and wholly _un_ familiar ways, causes sensations and elicits responses he has never before experienced.

Together, they learn that her fingers, lips, teeth, and tongue _can_ bring him to completion (she mentions something about cashews, honey, and salt; he decides to 'take her word for it'), but that they both prefer a more equitable sort of joining. She remains on top of him, when they come together the second time, asserting control he is completely willing to let her claim.

When Zoe has also achieved climax, when she has repositioned herself in the crook of his arm, exhausted, but apparently happy, he brings the bedsheets over both of them, and issues the command to extinguish the lights in the hotel room.

She wakes up long enough in the morning to send a note to Lachlan Meade, informing him that they are skipping brunch.

Data replicates breakfast and brings it back to the bed. He has never considered eating this way before, has always assumed it is something only done in the romantic comedy videos Zoe sometimes watches when she needs what she calls _comfort viewing._

When the meal is finished, they make love again – his programming accepts that term - and then she goes to shower and prepare for her performance.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45534.72**

 **(Sunday, 14 July 2368, 17:03 hours, local time)**

 **Hunter's Moon**

"So," Zoe asks him when she meets him in her dressing room after the show. "What did you think?"

Data considers his response for nearly an entire second before answering her, "I found it intriguing that even though this was not a 'book musical' with specific characters, each of the archetypes represented experienced a sort of 'character arc,' and demonstrated growth and change during the course of the performance."

As he had calculated she was likely to do, she fixes him with her exasperated glare. "I _meant_ ," she explains carefully, "what did you think of me? Of my performance. You've never just _watched_ me in anything before."

"That is not strictly accurate," he corrects her, engaging in his own form of teasing. "I have watched you many times in rehearsal. I have watched you play solo pieces on your cello. You performed a song that you dedicated to me at your father's New Year's Eve party last year…"

She moves behind the screen to change while he speaks, but returns in time to react to his words.

" _Data!_ " Her tone of voice and the body language that implies she would throw a blunt object at his head if she had one at hand, confirm that he has met his goal of maximum exasperation before teasing turns into something less pleasant.

"If you wish my opinion of your performance," he begins, watching as her mood softens, and she becomes receptive to his words once more, "I found it to be compelling. You have always been a competent and nuanced performer, and now you are more so, however – " He moves behind her, and gathers her gently against his body, her back to his front, then leans around to kiss her lips. "- I could not help but be distracted by my memories of our activities last night and this morning."

She laughs and turns her head for another kiss. "That's not quite the performance I had in mind, lover-mine, but it will do."

It is the second time she has referred to him that way.

He decides he… likes it.

 **(=A=)**

Half an hour later, they are the last to arrive at the Chinese restaurant, but seats have been saved for them in the middle of one of the sides of the long table.

"Sorry we're late," Zoe greets her friends – no – her colleagues. "Everyone, this is – " She pauses. "We're so informal here; I don't know how to introduce you," she says to him, blushing faintly, but before he can suggest that she just use his name, she says, "This is Data," in an inflection that makes it clear she has spoken of him to these people.

Across the table, the young man he heard last night grins at both of them. "Oh, honey… oh, girl got _laid._ " Everyone laughs. "I'm sorry, was that my out-loud voice. Sorry. Data, welcome. I'm Mykel, and this is Jeremy. That's Oberlyne, Roger and his wife Tricia, Simon and his wife Danielle, and Lach says you've met him before. Sit, sit. We're all hungry."

Within minutes, food appears, all served communally, and Data finds himself engaged in several conversations at once, while also sampling many of the dishes as Zoe quietly explains what they are and which her favorites are.

"So, Data, what did ye think of yer lassling's performance," Lach asks when they are well into the meal.

"Lach, don't put him on the spot like that," Oberlyne chastises the director lightly, putting her hand on his arm in a way that confirms their intimacy.

"Do not worry, Oberlyne," Data responds. "I do not mind answering. I enjoyed all of your performances very much, especially the way each of you represented a character arc despite not playing a specific character. However, I must admit that my bias is toward Zoe."

Though he and Zoe both know he is essentially repeating what he already shared in her dressing room, the rest of the company does not. Still, he is pleased to observe that his response struck just the right note.

"Well said, young sair," Lach announces, clapping Data on the back.

The meal continues with moments of intense conversation and occasional bursts of laughter, and by the end of it, Data recognizes that Zoe and her cast mates have formed a sort of family during the weeks they have been rehearsing and performing together. A part of him is wistful at observing how well she fits in with them, while another, more objective part is grateful that she has this support system. It will not only prevent her from being too lonely, but it will also help her to thrive, to build the confidence she needs to continue both as a professional entertainer, and in their relationship and the inevitable separations they must both continue to endure.

Finally, he, Zoe, Oberlyne and Lachlan are the last people at the restaurant. Lach excuses himself to pay the check, while Zoe makes a beeline for the restroom, and Oberlyne leans past her partner's empty chair to address him.

"Data, maybe it's not my place to say it, but… Lach won't, and we want you to know. We all know Zoe's young for this experience. She's a seasoned performer, has a longer resume than a lot of the other young actors in the full company, but she's inexperienced in the world in a way the rest of us aren't. It's clear you and she are very much connected, so it might do you some good to hear… we're all watching out for her. She's never alone unless she wants to be, and we make a point of including her in all of our social activities."

"That is most reassuring," he tells the older actress. "I am not the only person in Zoe's life who has been concerned over her well-being, but seeing her on stage, in her element… I am keenly aware of her absence from our quarters, but I would not begrudge her this opportunity, and I am gratified to see her doing well."

"She's quite a talent, your Zoe," the woman says, a fond note in her voice. "She'll go far, especially if she has the support of the people she loves most. She talks about you often, but I'm sure you surmised that." Her smile is a sincere one, and he feels the corners of his own mouth quirk slightly upward in response.

Their respective partners return a moment later. "Alright," Lach says. "Lassling, go have fun with yer gentleman-suitor." He pulls Zoe into a rough hug, then releases her. "See you for notes on Wednesday morning. Don't be late."

Data rises and meets Lach's proffered hand across the table. "Thank you," he tells the old Scotsman. "I appreciate everything you have done for me, and are doing for Zoe."

"Oh, laddie. It's ye who are doing fer Zoe. Me? I just tell her where to stand."

Lach and Oberlyne head off in the direction of the hotel.

Data looks at his girlfriend, and she seems to perceive that he is watching her, for she turns her head toward him and gives him the smile that is, apparently, reserved solely for his benefit. "Now what?" she asks.

They spend the next three nights and two days alternating between lazy moments in her hotel room, watching videos or just talking. He asks after Wesley and Annette, and tells her about Barclay's latest holographic mishap – he created a dinosaur experience that was too bloody and realistic for the school children it was meant to educate. She asks about her mother, her friends among the ship's company, and his friends and colleagues, drinking in every detail he provides.

Other conversations are deeper. They discuss the news from around the Federation, and he finds that Zoe is surprisingly well-informed about the racial tension between the Bajorans and the Cardassians, where things seem to be working toward a political explosion. They find that they share opinions on many topics – artificial lifeform rights, for example – while they differ on others. (Zoe cannot truly believe individual worlds should subsume their entire governance to the Federation central authority, can she? It would be like her to take the opposing view point just for the sake of debate, or to end the debate with amorous behavior.)

Together, they explore several of the boutiques and gift stores. They purchase gifts for him to take back to the ship – loose tea for the captain, good chocolate for the counselor, a very basic beginning trombone music book as a joke for Commander Riker, among other things.

In the evenings, they either eat in the hotel restaurant, or replicate light meals in the room, and while, at home, sex every night had not yet become a habit, they both seem to perceive the ticking of the clock and the sand grains dropping through the hourglass, because even Data finds that he cannot get _enough_ , cannot capture _enough_ of Zoe's scent and heat and passion to hold onto until they are next together.

How much worse it must be for his lover, he considers, who does _not_ possess the ability of total, perfect recall, and who must experience everything with an emotional overlay that can tilt in the direction of either joy or sadness.

Perhaps, Data muses, he is somewhat lucky, after all.

On Wednesday morning, they part ways in the hotel lobby, sharing a kiss and the whispered words that mean everything.

"I love you," Zoe tells him.

"I am devoted to you," he reminds her.

Data watches as she crosses the street to the theatre, raising his hand when she pauses on the opposite side to look back at him. Then he engages the remote transport option and returns to the shuttle for his trip back… home.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45561.48**

 **(Wednesday, 24 July 2368, 12:03 PM PDT, local time)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats Apt. 2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

My dearest, darlingest, Data.

First, before your grammar subroutines freak out, yes, I know 'darlingest' isn't really a word. Chalk it up to me being loopy from sleep deprivation. Or from walking into my apartment not ten minutes ago, and being bludgeoned by the beauty of all these flowers. Five bouquets, Data, really?

I do like the irises, though.

And the sunflowers.

And the daisies that smell like chocolate. Who knew that was even a concept? Who, indeed, but you.

I'm finding it difficult to wrap my head around the fact that just a week ago you were kissing me goodbye in the hotel lobby on Hunter's Moon, and now I'm back on Earth, instead of on the ship with you.

Missing you is beginning to be such a constant state that you'd think I'd become inured to it, and yet, I'm not.

I wish you were here, or I was there or we were both somewhere else as long as we were together.

I wish we were trying some more of your 'multiple techniques' in our own bed.

See, I told you I was tired. I have no filter when I'm tired.

Tell Spot to cuddle you for me. I'm going to bed.

Interstellar travel is _exhausting_!

Love, Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45574.13**

 **(Monday, 29 July 2368, 03:11 hours, ship's time)**

 _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

It is a very odd sensation, the entity called 'Data' observes, to be trapped inside oneself. He can see what the other entity, the one which has displaced him, is doing, but he cannot control his own functions.

Except…

This new dominant personality was organic once, is technically organic still. As such, it does not know how to be active and alert at all hours. It is conditioned to require periods of rest.

Data does not require rest.

And in the wee hours on the second day of his body's occupation, he learns that while he has no physical control he can seep through the cracks of the alien entity and whisper into the darkest corners of its consciousness.

 _Do not do this. Relinquish control of this body._

 _\- It is mine now._

 _These people will assist you if they can._

 _\- Assist us? We are beyond help._

 _Harming innocents is no way to advance your cause._

 _\- Are you truly that naïve? With this body, I don't need help. I could kill them all._

 _Please do not._

The hours drag on, and he, Data, senses himself… thinning. He searches for something to cling to. Memories. He has access to memories. Fishing the Crusher boy out of the holodeck creek. (The girl with the braids. The girl in the third row. The girl who had that smile… Music. Teasing. Kissing. Connection. Zoe? Zoe.) _Zoe!_

His self has dissipated further.

 _\- Aren't you supposed to be a machine?_

 _I am an android. Therefore, I am a machine._

 _\- They let you consort with their women?_

 _There is no 'letting.' I am a person. I have rights. I have friends and colleagues and… (Zoe) a girlfriend._

 _\- A girlfriend who fucks machines. Is she here? I'd love to meet her._

 _NO!_

 _No, she is not here._

The conversation continues, never ceasing. It is the only way he can maintain any semblance of cohesion.

The plasma shock that knocks out his sensors and drives the entity away is a blissful relief.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45579.92**

 **(Wednesday, 31 July 2368, 06:05 hours, ship's time)**

 _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **From: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats, Apt. 2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

My Zoe,

We are now days away from the Ux-Mali prisoners and the world they inhabit. I have fully recovered from the ordeal. I assure you, I was in no way traumatized. My consciousness was displaced, my awareness cut off. It was much as though I was in a sensory deprivation environment.

It is not an experience I wish to repeat, however. Knowing that my body was used to cause harm to my friends and crewmates is extremely… disconcerting.

It may reassure _you_ to know that the planet in question has been quarantined.

I shared your last letter with Geordi, Dr. Crusher, Chief O'Brien, and Commander Riker at last night's poker game, which I hosted here in our quarters. The doctor was intrigued to hear the details you shared about _Tanagra: Uncloaked_. A retelling of the legend of _Darmok and Jilad_ in a Kabuki-style production would seem incongruous, and yet, I am certain under Lachlan Meade's direction it will become and interesting and compelling piece of theatre, even if you are not part of the cast.

Similarly, everyone was fascinated by your explanation of your typical day, balancing performing in one show while rehearsing another.

Counselor Troi asked if you would be joining our game, at least when it is my turn to act as host. I informed her that you dislike poker, despite the fact that you have demonstrated your ability to hold your own in Texas Hold'em and have referred to games of 'strip poker' at your childhood arts camp.

Everyone found the latter example to be extremely amusing, and the chief made repeated innuendo-laden remarks about whether or not I 'stripped to poke 'er' among other examples.

It is possible I should not have mentioned that variant of the game.

It is equally possible that I would benefit from your tutelage in it. I would, of course, engage in such a game only with you.

Spot is demanding her breakfast, and I am due for a staff meeting, so I must end this.

I miss you, and am looking forward to seeing you at your mother's wedding in October, if not sooner.

Yours,

Data.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45595.51**

 **(Monday, 5 August 2368, 22:03 hours, ship's time)**

 _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Data places the call as soon as he realizes that, as her mother's dependent, Zoe has access to FleetNet and would have heard about the incident with the _U.S.S. Denver_. With her current schedule he is certain that she will be home, but less certain that she will be awake. Perhaps, given the circumstances, she will understand his reasons for contacting her 'off-schedule.'

 _"Go for Zoe,"_ her voice comes to him first, then resolves into her image: she is propped against her pillows, her hair loose, and she is wearing one of the Starfleet Academy Athletics t-shirts she purloined from his closet when she was packing.

"I am sorry to call so late," he says, and both of them note the irony when he continues with the question, "Did I wake you?" Just a few months ago, she routinely stayed awake with him until zero-two hundred hours. "I did not wish you to worry if you heard the news that the _Enterprise_ is en route to assist the _Denver._ "

She is obviously tired, but her smile appears. _"It's okay, I was reading. I've never been good at that whole 'keeping regular hours' thing, and being with you made my nocturnal tendencies even stronger."_ Her expression sobers. _"I saw the story on the FleetNet feed. Dad transferred the account to my name when I moved in, but I don't watch it all the time. I'm glad you called. I was worried – in fact, I'd set my alarm to get up early tomorrow and call_ _you._ _Is it bad? The report only said the ship had been hit by a Cardassian mine, and the_ _Enterprise_ _was being dispatched to provide assistance."_

"There are many casualties, and many more who were injured, but Dr. Crusher and her team have things well in hand." It was typical for the news to run a couple of days behind reality. FleetNet was apparently reporting that the flagship was en route, when in fact it had already reached its destination.

 _"So, if you're helping a ship that was hit by a gravitic mine… doesn't that mean the_ _Enterprise_ _is at risk, too? I mean, mines aren't typically sitting out in the middle of space all on their lonesome, are they?"_

In truth they were currently engaged in station-keeping along the edge of a minefield, but not only is Data not authorized to relay that information on an open channel, he does not believe Zoe would benefit from it. He dislikes lying to her under any circumstance. In this case, fortunately, an evasion will do: "While there is some risk, our sensors are much more sensitive than those of the _Denver._ As well, our shielding is significantly stronger. It is unlikely that a similar mine would cause any significant damage to the _Enterprise."_

 _"It's leftover from the war, isn't it?"_ Her question is an astute one; but he expects no less. _"The mine, I mean."_

"That is very likely."

 _"You'll be careful?"_ she asks, her eyes huge in her face. He knows she means both the ship as a whole and himself, in particular.

"I will."

 _"Okay."_

They are both silent for the span of twenty point eight six seconds, a notable pause for two people who are typically heavy talkers. "Is the recording you asked for helping you to sleep?" he finally blurts at the same time that she asks him a question.

 _"Is Worf doing any better? Is Alexander holding up okay?"_

She laughs and he favors her with his version of a smile. He understands the whimsical humor in their crosstalk.

 _"Me, first, I guess. The recording is helping a_ _lot_ _. I love the songs you picked. I love that your voice is the last thing I hear at night."_ She blushes faintly, and confesses, _"I miss falling asleep listening to the soft_ _thrum_ _of your internal systems, but your music is a good substitute, for now. Your turn."_

"I am gratified to hear it." He takes a fraction of a second to determine what information he can provide about the burly Klingon security chief, who is currently under treatment for a serious spinal cord injury. "To answer _your_ question, Alexander is, as far as I know, being cared for by Counselor Troi; the two of them have formed a friendship, of sorts. Worf is considering undergoing an experimental surgery that may allow him to function as normal."

 _"Really? Wow! That sounds dangerous."_

"It is, but he is a Klingon, and their views on what constitutes 'quality of life' are more specific than those of other cultures."

 _"Yeah, I guess they would be, so I guess bigger risks are in order."_ She waits a beat then adds. _"I had a nightmare last night. Well, early this morning, really. I've had the beginnings of others, but I've been able to shake them off. But last night… it was the old dream, from before Melona… where Lore is working with the Borg, and your hands are missing and everything is green-lit and gooey. I think I might talk to one of the therapists Deanna recommended. Get ahead of the problem, this time."_

He is, of course, concerned for her, but there is little he can do, other than remind her. "You know you may always call me if it will make you feel better to speak instead of waiting for a letter."

 _"I know; you keep saying, but… I don't like to bother you, and I have to learn to deal with this on my own."_

"It is no bother," he assures her. "You are never a bother. You are my partner, and I am yours."

His phrasing elicits a smile. _"Okay,_ _partner_ _, I'll try to remember that."_ She yawns. _"I'm sorry. I hate cutting our conversations short, but I'm kind of tired."_

"Then rest. We will speak again on Wednesday."

 _"Counting on it,"_ she says. _"Goodnight, Data. I love you."_

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could respond with the words she deserves, but he cannot so his usual _"I am devoted to you. Good night, Zoe,"_ must be enough.

As the channel is closed, Data reflects that it has never really been enough.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45616.86**

 **(Tuesday, 13 August 2368, 6:33 PM PDT, local time)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats Apt. 2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 _(Zoe is extremely agitated and visibly upset during her entire recording.)_

Hi, Data…

I just got home from my third visit with Dr. Gratz. I really didn't want to go back to him, but you and Deanna both said I should give him one more chance, and I'm still having nightmares – not every night, or anything – but enough that it's an issue.

Or at least, it's becoming one.

I mean, I messed up my lines three times at rehearsal today, and nearly kicked Somak – the guy playing Caliban – in the balls today because I forgot the blocking we'd changed yesterday.

 _(She sighs.)_

Anyway, Dr. Gratz started asking me all these questions about why I was dating someone who was older, and couldn't give me emotional support and looked just like the man who raped me, and how could my parents allow our relationship to be a thing, and how come Starfleet didn't court martial you for violating your position as an authority figure?

"How," he asked me, "can a little girl like you make any kind of healthy romantic decision? How can you sit here and act as if it's appropriate for anyone to be having sexual relations with a machine? You want the nightmares to stop, you might consider ending this affair."

The more he kept trying to get me to explain _us_ , the more I felt like he was trying to turn our relationship into something weird and dirty.

And it's not.

It's really not.

I'm _not_ a child now, and I wasn't a child when we first started exploring what we were to each other, and I know – I _know_ – that with or without your ethics program you would never have allowed our relationship to get even half this far if there were something wrong with it.

I mean, I'm young, but eventually I'll grow out of that.

 _(She makes a wry grin, but the expression slides off her face, and her attempt at humor falls just as flat.)_

You believe me, don't you, when I tell you I don't feel a lack of anything? Because I don't. And I wouldn't have moved in with you, I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want to be.

 _(She rallies somewhat, and the next sentences are laced with typical Zoe ferocity.)_

I'm _not_ stupid. And I'm _not_ helpless.

And I know it's only been three sessions, and I'm not saying I don't need help, but if I go back to him on Thursday, I swear I'm going to punch him in the nose. I'm pretty sure Captain Picard would tell me that slugging your therapist is bad form, but trust me, this guy deserves it.

 _(She takes a couple of calming breaths, and then continues, but her eyes start to tear up as she speaks.)_

I'm sorry to dump this on you. Mom is so wrapped up in wedding plans – it's less than two months away! – that I hate to bother her, and Deanna really _isn't_ my counselor right now, and you keep reminding me that you want me to lean on you when I need to.

I just feel so alone right now. I talked to Annette over comm last night, but she's about to go on vacation with Ray before she moves into the dorms for her first semester, and Dad and Gia are being run ragged with David and… Wes is… Wes.

I don't know who else to call.

Alynna – Admiral Nechayev – asked me to come to dinner tonight, and I don't really feel very sociable but being around people is probably a good idea, and - and I can't believe I'm saying this – at least she knows you, and I don't have to feel like I'm deviant for being your girlfriend.

I know it's poker night, and Alynna's dinners always run late, so I'll try to call over subspace in the morning, if that's okay. I just… I need to hear your voice.

 _(The tears she's been barely holding back begin to flow.)_

I miss you so much right now, and I'm so tired and on-edge that I'm about two seconds from telling Lach I quit and running back home to you.

Well… not really… but… I do miss you.

I love you.

Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45617.03**

 **(Tuesday, 13 August 2368, 20:00 hours, ship's time)**

 _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Data and the doctor arrive at Commander Riker's door at the same time, but from opposite directions. He does not think his concern for Zoe is evident in his expression, but the doctor's 'maternal instinct' must be in active mode, because she pauses before signaling their arrival.

"Data… is everything okay with you and Zoe?"

"Our relationship is fine, Doctor," he answers honestly. "Why do you ask?" The question is not meant to evade, but to gauge the direction this conversation is likely to take.

"Deanna mentioned that she'd been having bad dreams again – bad enough to see a therapist about it – and that the doctor in question was… less than supportive."

"That is correct," he confirms. "I received a letter from her just before I came here tonight. I wish to speak with Counselor Troi before I respond."

"I thought you and Zoe usually communicated pretty well."

He is certain she does not mean that line as an innuendo, and takes it at 'face value.' "You are not mistaken, Doctor, but… Zoe was showing signs of serious distress and one of the reasons I did not make an immediate subspace call to speak with her is that she was on her way to dinner with Admiral Nechayev."

" _One_ of the reasons?"

"Zoe suggested that she was upset enough to end her contract and return home. While I miss her, and would welcome her return, I believe ending her association with Idyllwild prematurely would be… unwise. I find myself uncertain how to proceed. I wish to be a supportive mate, but I am not certain encouraging her to give up on a potentially invaluable experience would truly be supportive."

The doctor gives him an appraising look and then surprises him by squeezing his arm in a gesture he perceives to be affectionate. "Zoe is a very lucky young woman to have you on her side, Data. Let's see what Deanna has to say." She pauses. "What do your instincts tell you to do?"

"I do not possess 'instinctive' behavior, Doctor."

"Don't you? In your way? After all, you knew you didn't have the necessary information to respond to her immediately."

"I do not understand."

"What do you _want_ to do, to help Zoe?"

Her rephrased question makes much more sense to him. "I wish to go to her," he confesses. "But I took leave to visit her at Hunter's Moon last month. Captain Picard is likely to object if I use more leave so soon."

"Give Jean-Luc some credit, Data. He was young and in love once, too. Besides, he's been exchanging his own letters with Zoe from time to time." She smiles at him. "He probably knows _something'_ s going on. As to using your leave, Data, in all the years we've served together, I've barely seen you take leave at all. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd accrued a million years' worth of time off."

He has the sense to look slightly sheepish (although he has never seen sheep exhibit the expression so-described.) "It is not quite a million years," he says.

The doctor chuckles at that. "In any case, there's no crime in using the time off you've earned, and I'm saying so as your friend _and_ your CMO."

"It is… something to consider," he agrees, and then activates the first officer's door chime.

Inside, Data learns that the Counselor is not playing poker that evening, as she has agreed to an 'emergency counselling session' with Lt. Barclay. He makes a mental note to seek her out after the game, and, after exchanging greetings and other pleasantries with Commander Riker and Lieutenant Worf, he takes his usual seat at the round table, and adjusts the angle of his visor.

Gameplay begins, and eventually it is his turn to deal. The deck of cards is handed to him and he does the shuffle with the bridge-riffle and flourish that always amuses Zoe when they are playing cards. (She has asked him to teach her that move, but they have not yet attempted it.)

As Data hands the cards to the commander, who has, incidentally, lost the most chips so far this evening, Riker grumbles, "Sometimes I wonder if he's stacking the deck." But he cuts the cards, anyway, and hands the cut deck back for distribution.

"I assure you, Commander," Data says, hearing a bit of the snarky tone he has begun using from time to time, the one Zoe calls his 'pissy' voice, color his words, "the cards are sufficiently randomized."

Across from him, Lt. Worf glowers and mutters, "I hope so."

Data gives the Klingon what he hopes is a disdainful look, but does not comment. Instead, he begins handing out the cards, "Eight," he says, flipping up a card and passing it to their host. "Ace." That card goes to the lieutenant. The next card is for the doctor: "Queen," and then he flips up his own card. "The dealer receives a four."

While he waits for his friends to make their wagers (or not) he decides that the doctor's suggestion is a good one. When the game is over, he will explore the best possible dates for a short visit to Earth.

* * *

 **Notes:** Episodes spanned (but not necessarily referenced) in order are "The Masterpiece Society," "Conundrum," "Power Play," "Ethics," and "The Outcast." _Songs for a New World_ is a song cycle written and composed by Jason Robert Brown, it's all about the decisions we make when we come to a metaphoric cliff in our lives – do we leap, give up, whatever. Hunter's Moon is an invention of my own, first referenced in the Preface to _For Auld Lang Syne_. The nightmare Zoe describes to Data is a riff on one of the nightmares she had way back in the original _Crush._ FleetNet is also my invention, used first in the original _Crush_ , as well – it represents a private members-only channel for Starfleet personnel, their spouses, and their dependents. Dr. Gratz might be named after a high school orchestra director teacher who nearly ruined my love of music. The dialogue in the final poker scene is from "Cause and Effect." You can make of that what you will. Special thanks to **KoraM852** for inspiration and general awesomeness.


	3. Courante

**_Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Also, with the exception of the Prelude, much of this story is told in epistolary format (letters, vid-calls, messaging). Unless otherwise noted, all letters are video messages._**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **III. Courante**

 _In a Baroque dance suite an Italian or French courante is typically paired with a preceding allemande, making it the second movement of the suite or the third if there is a prelude._ _Courante_ _literally means "running," and in the later Renaissance the courante was danced with fast running and jumping steps, but the courante commonly used in the baroque period was described as "chiefly characterized by the passion or mood of sweet expectation. For there is something heartfelt, something longing and also gratifying, in this melody: clearly music on which hopes are built."_

 **Stardate 45603.38**

 **(Thursday, 8 August 2368, 8:06 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

The comm-unit is chiming as I unlock the door of my apartment. I've just come from a full day of rehearsals, plus my second session with one of the therapists Counselor Troi had recommended, followed by dinner with some of my troupe-mates, and all I really want is a bath, a book, and bed, but I answer the call anyway, because it could be Annette calling for a meet-up, or Mom checking in with me. It isn't either of them, though the call is from a Starfleet channel, and my first reactions are surprise, and then concern when the 'fleet logo resolves into the familiar gold-leaf features of my boyfriend.

My halfway-across-the-galaxy boyfriend.

"Data? We talked yesterday, is everything alright?" _Please don't tell me something happened to you or Mom_.

His voice is rock-steady, just like always. _"Everything is fine,"_ he answers, _"except for the distance between us."_

I melt a little inside, and feel a smile spreading across my lips. "Flirting gets you everywhere, " I tease, hoping that if I keep things light, banter with him instead of lapsing into sweetness and goo, he won't notice that I'm upset and exhausted. More the latter than the former, but, still. "So, is this an extra social call, or…?"

 _"I am afraid it is not. The_ _Enterprise_ _is heading into a region of space called the 'Typhon Expanse,' and communications are likely to be severely delayed. I did not wish you to worry."_ He pauses before I can respond, adding after a moment of silent assessment. _"Something is wrong. Do you wish to talk about it?"_

"How much time do you have?" My tone implies that the query is rhetorical.

He answers me anyway. _"Twenty-one point four minutes."_

"Is that when the poker game starts?" When nothing major is going on, it isn't unusual for there to be more than one officers' poker game in a week.

 _"It is,"_ his confirmation is matter-of-fact, but his expression softens and his head tilts slightly forward, his brows drawing together just a bit. _"Zoe, you are evading."_

 _Guilty as charged._ "So, you know I went to see that therapist on Tuesday," I begin, even though I know that Data, of all people, doesn't need to be reminded.

There is a slight movement of his head that means he's increased the level of focus he is giving our conversation. _"You said that you were uncertain whether Dr. Gratz is a good fit."_

"I'm still not certain," I confirm, "but most of the first session was basic questionnaire stuff, and setting goals, and you and Deanna both said I should give him a real shot before I wrote him off completely, so I kept today's appointment."

 _"Ah,"_ he says, understanding evident in his tone. _"It did not go well?"_

"I should have known he was evil as soon as I noticed he had a goatee," I grumble. His reaction tells me he doesn't understand the correlation, and it's not a good time to explain. "No, it _didn't_ go well. He's been through the files Deanna sent, and he's started asking questions."

 _"You were prepared for that eventuality,"_ he reminds me gently.

"Yes, I know. It's just… I was expecting we'd sort of ease into things. Instead, he asked me - and the thing is, it's not an invalid question, exactly – he asked me if Lore…" I can hear agitation taking over my own voice, and I stop talking. Take a deep breath. With deliberate calm, I continue, "He asked me if the only reason you and I are a couple is because we reacted to things Lore set in motion."

On the screen in front of me, Data's golden eyes go wide. I can practically see the speed of the blinky lights inside his head increasing as he considers – and just as quickly discards - the possibility. I also see his expression alter yet again, to one of firm resolve. _"No."_

"Data?"

 _"Zoe, you are correct that the question is not invalid. I have considered it, as well."_

"And?" I knew my own expression was troubled. _Make it better_ , I think. _It's what you do._

Data's response is intense, as if he is trying to reach across the light years and wrap me in his certitude. _"While our first 'proper' kiss_ _was_ _prompted by Lore's actions at Starbase Twelve nearly a year ago, our friendship had already begun to grow into_ _more_ _before you ever encountered him the previous February."_

"So you _did_ know I was crushing on you!" I blurt, amused, and, oddly, a little bit embarrassed.

 _"I… suspected,"_ Data confirmed. _"However, I was referring to my own perceptions of our friendship."_

"Oh?"

 _"While I have participated in the birthday celebrations of several of my friends and colleagues, as well as many of the students living aboard the_ _Enterprise_ , _you are the only person to whom I have ever presented jewelry."_

I look down at my left wrist, still encircled by the beaded bracelet he'd given me for my sixteenth birthday, and returned to me after I'd lost it when Lore grabbed me from Melona. "Mala beads aren't exactly jewel-." I stop myself, responding to the pointed look he is giving me. "So what you're saying is… he might have pushed us a little faster than either of us intended…"

 _"… but we would have arrived at the same 'place' eventually."_ Data finishes the sentence for me. _"Yes, Zoe. Of that, I am certain."_

"I wish we were in the same physical location right now," I admit, not caring how pathetic it probably sounds.

 _"I wish for that as well,"_ he said. _"If I am able, I will keep our subspace 'date' on Sunday,"_ he added. _"I am afraid I must go now. I am devoted to you, Zoe."_

"I love you," I answer. "Win big."

His response is a curt nod acknowledging my instruction, his nonverbal promise to try. I grin back at his image and blow him a kiss as the connection closes.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45616.72**

 **(Tuesday, 13 August 2368, 5:17 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

I leave the rehearsal hall a little after five, allowing the concierge to hail an air cab for me. The distance from the Idyllwild building to my therapist's office isn't that great, but I'm tired and sweaty from rehearsal, and the few minutes in air-conditioned silence will give me the chance to compose myself.

The media screen in the back is set to FNN, and I notice that mainstream media has finally caught up with the story about Lt. Worf's miracle surgery and recovery. FleetNet had the story days ago, and was much more balanced in their approach. I can't help but smile at the notion that wherever I go, news of 'home' follows me.

I'm the last patient Dr. Gratz has on his roster that day. I know because his receptionist, Wanda, makes a point of telling me she'll be at her desk, "until you're done, because female patients aren't supposed to be alone in the building."

I don't bother telling her that, thanks to the boxing lessons I've been taking, I have a decent right hook, and could probably take the doctor if he tried anything.

(I could definitely take _her_ but I don't bother mentioning that, either.)

Inside the inner sanctum, the lights are subdued, and the furniture is comfortable enough to put you at ease without being so comfortable you forget you're in a doctor's office.

"Zoe, welcome back. I wasn't sure you'd be keeping your appointment. Have a seat." He isn't unfriendly, really, just a little cold. Clinical.

"I wasn't either," I tell him with no irony whatsoever. I sit in the center of the couch, directly across from him. "Deanna and Data both said I should give this – give _you_ – another chance."

"I see." I'm not familiar enough with his different tones to know if that was dismissive or adversarial. I only know it wasn't neutral. "Do you always discuss therapy sessions with your lover?" Adversarial then. _Oh, joy._

" _Partner_ ," I correct, choosing the word Data has been using more and more often lately. "Data and I have no secrets, except as relates to his work and my lack of security clearance." I know this to be true, and my certainty is evident in both my voice and my posture.

"I see," he says again. "Last week we discussed the possibility that you and Mr. Data fell into a relationship as a reaction to his twin's actions. Have you given that any thought?"

I feel myself bristling, and shift slightly on the couch. The movement is just enough that the beads in my bracelet click together – _I love that sound!_ – and I smile at Dr. Gratz. "I have, and you're wrong. Data and I were already close friends before I ever met Lore."

"He was your teacher?"

"Yes."

"The subject was advanced mathematics?"

"He also coached me in music theory. We met every Saturday morning during the first semester of my sophomore year. After my semester break, he was coaching me in technique as well. The only other cellist on the ship who had the experience to teach couldn't take me any further. When I returned to the _Enterprise_ after being away during my summer break, we restructured our musical relationship, and became partners rather than teacher and student."

"Why did you give up music?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're here in San Francisco as an apprentice in a theatre program. Why aren't you in a music program? Aren't you wasting all the time Mr. Data spent on you?"

"First of all," I tell him, trying not to sound angry, "it's _Commander_ Data, not Mister. And secondly, we still play music together. It's not something I'm ever going to give up entirely; I just realized I didn't want to make a career out of it."

Dr. Gratz continues with this line of questioning, asking me about music, about theatre, about my relationship with Data, apparently perceiving connections I cannot. It's more like an inquisition than a therapy session. I feel like I'm being hammered.

Eventually, I reach a point where I feel worse than I did when I entered his office. I take a breath and confront him. "I don't understand how analyzing my music studies has anything to do with helping me sleep through the night without having horrible dreams."

"Don't you?" his thin, sharp eyebrows ( _I bet he has them shaped)_ lift over his gray eyes and darker gray hair. "You feel conflicted about the fact that you are in an unequal relationship with the twin of the person who raped you. Your nightmares are the manifestation of your doubts about being in an intense relationship with someone of his position and authority when you are still a little girl who has no business living on her own."

My right hand balls itself into a fist of its own accord, and I almost have to sit on it to keep myself from jumping up and hitting him.

"That," I say in my firmest, darkest voice, "is _not_ true. "

"Mr. – _Commander_ – Data _is_ a machine, is he not? By his own admission he has no emotions. He's a line officer on the ship where you live, where your mother serves, and, emancipated or not, you _are_ still only seventeen." I think he's done, but then he continues. "You've stated yourself that he and… Lore, is it?... are virtually identical. I'm sure the force of his personality is enough to keep you believing you're happy when you're together, but now that you're separate from him, you're beginning to see things as they really are."

Put like that, I can understand why the doctor sees me – sees _us_ – that way, but I also know he's missing the big picture. I am certain that he's completely, utterly, _wrong_ about the reason I'm having nightmares again, as well. I open my mouth to rebut his statements, but he interrupts before I even make a sound.

"You might wish to think about these things between now and your next session, Zoe. For now, our time is up. Do you want me to have Wanda call a cab for you?"

I manage to answer yes to the cab-query. It's waiting when I get down to the lobby, and I give my address and invoke the privacy screen before the tears start flowing.

At home, I have only half an hour to recover before I have to change and leave again. Admiral Nechayev has insisted I join her and a few friends for dinner, and while a part of me wants to spend the evening with bad videos, a carton of ice cream, and a spoon, the more mature part of me recognizes that being around people who know me, and know Data, is actually the wiser choice.

Still, I take a moment to log onto my comm system and record a letter to the man I love, and send it off to him.

Within seconds after I receive the confirmation that my missive was successfully sent, I receive a new item in my inbox. Nothing important just an advertisement, but I glimpse the header even as I instruct the computer to delete it, unread:

 **Where is your data headed?**

But I already know. _My_ Data is on a ship on the outskirts of the Typhon Expanse. I can only hope nothing unexpected happens.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45623.68**

 **(Friday, 16 August 2368, 6:24 AM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

After my second night in a row of tossing and turning, waking up to stop nightmares from taking hold, and listening to the songs Data recorded for me in order to fall asleep, I find myself sipping coffee at six in the morning, and trying my subspace call to the _Enterprise_ yet again.

I route this attempt to my mother's attention, in case the reason I'm not getting through to Data is because he's on an away mission.

Before I can finish the process of calling, though, I get the alert notices for three incoming messages. One is from Ray, telling me he'll be in a seminar at the Academy beginning Monday, and would I like to have dinner one night during the week. One is from Nonna, confirming my travel plans for the evening shuttle to New York – they'll meet me in dirtside arrivals. And the third is another advertisement for another data-comm company:

 **Is your data being throttled?**

I have to wonder about that. Is Data in trouble on an away mission, or is this really just a communications glitch because of time conversions, greater distance, and unusual regions of space. I envision a warp core breech and everyone running for escape pods, imagining klaxons, chaos, and lots of smoke.

Then I shake my head. _Stop expecting the worst_ , I tell myself.

I answer the two messages from actual people, and delete the advertisement.

My attempt to call Mom times out like all the subspace calls I've made to the _Enterprise_ have for days. Giving up on the option of real-time communication, I record another letter, and send it off, not to my mother, but to my partner.

 **(=A=)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Dear Data,

I've tried calling every morning since Tuesday, and the subspace relay keeps giving me a time-out message. I don't know if there's something wrong with my comm system or just that you're in a communications blackout, and I'm trying not to worry.

When should I worry?

I know my last letter was kind of a mess. I'm still feeling a bit uneven, but Somak has been really kind, especially considering where I nearly kicked him. I think I told you he's pure Vulcan, but doesn't practice _Cthia_ in the traditional way?He became an actor, he told me, because "…the mindfulness required to produce a believable emotional response on stage requires just as much control and self-knowledge as the more traditional approach to the disciplines of reality-truth."

Anyway, we were on a lunch break yesterday, and I was a little agitated – I didn't sleep well Wednesday night – no nightmares, just bad sleep – and I was trying to do the meditation exercises Tev and Deanna had both taught me, and he said, "Excuse me, Zoe, but I believe there is a better technique for you to use."

At first I thought he was making a pass at me – don't worry; he wasn't. It turns out that his wife, who is human but was raised on Aldebaran, is a massage therapist and yoga instructor – the legit kind, not the kind that's really a sex worker (not that there's anything wrong with being a sex worker if that's your thing) – and she had an opening for a massage right then, and we really clicked.

I don't think I've felt this relaxed outside of our bed since… wow, I can't remember.

Tara – her name is Tara - is lovely, and she and her employees have yoga classes and Pilates classes, and even just a stretching class. She's been combining meditative breathing with the stretch class – apparently a lot of her clients are dancers and actors – and so I went to a class last night. It's not boxing, but the pure physicality of it was really helpful.

Way more helpful than being interrogated by a non-therapeutic therapist. I didn't go to Dr. Gratz yesterday, and I don't regret it in the slightest.

I'll try calling again tonight, but I'm going away for the weekend. Nonna and Papa are insisting I spend some time with them, and I really want to do it. For much of my life they were just faces in video recordings and names on Christmas and birthday cards, and I'm really enjoying getting to know this whole other part of my family. Besides, a weekend of sun, sand, and someone else's cooking sounds like just what I need. You know their contact info, and I'll have my personal comm with me.

I'm trying to remind myself that space is big, and you're supposed to be exploring it, but I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

And I'm still having bad dreams.

I miss you. I love you. Cuddle Spot for me.

\- Zoe

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45631.78**

 **(Monday, 19 August 2368, 5:33 AM EDT, local time)**

 **Niantic, CT, Earth**

My grandparents' house sits facing Long Island Sound, and I can hear the water lapping at the shore from my bedroom window. The tide is almost at its lowest point and even though the moon is a good ten days from full, there's enough light to see the mud-flat where the water was mere hours before, and will be again in another few.

I haven't talked to Data – or Mom – or anyone on the _Enterprise_ since the twelfth, and FleetNet hasn't mentioned anything about the _Enterprise_ at all – but being with two people who love me has really helped.

Except…

Except, Nonna has been looking at me and clicking her teeth all weekend, and Papa's usual jocularity has intensified with each day, as if, between them, they wanted to fix everything that was wrong.

I'm awake now, because the breeze has shifted, breaking the summer humidity, and the tide has ebbed, and I feel like the ocean is calling me. I leave bed, and pull a pair of shorts on under Data's Starfleet Academy Athletics t-shirt, and I tiptoe downstairs on bare feet and brew a cup of my grandfather's strong black tea in one of his heavy porcelain mugs with the two thin green lines encircling the rim.

I like these mugs. They fit perfectly into the curve of my hand, and their weight is somehow comforting. My grandparents don't have a replicator but they do have instant hot water, so my tea is brewed in the faint illumination of the nightlight over the sink. The soft yellow glow strikes me as somehow wrong, and I realize I miss the blue and green glow of the nighttime settings Data uses on the monitors in our quarters.

Using a spoon, I squeeze out the teabag and toss it in the recycler. I add a tube of sugar, one of the packets Nonna collects from various restaurants more out of habit then necessity. At home, I would have milk in tea like this, but here I've been drinking it black, the way Papa does, and I like the stronger flavor, and the way it leaves my gums almost dry.

I take the mug and one of Nonna's hand-crocheted afghans – this one is all daisies – out to the porch, and curl up into one of the Adirondack chairs that everyone in Connecticut seems to own.

I'm not even out there for five minutes before the door opens and closes behind me. I expect it to be my grandfather, he who keeps fisherman's hours, still, after over a decade of being retired, but it's Nonna. "You are just like your mother, _bella mia_ , coming out here to commune with the sea and stars." Her voice is rough with age and warm with affection, sort of like the blanket I'm wrapped in.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I tell her.

"I'm old, Zoe. I don't sleep so well, anyway." She settles herself into the chair next to mine. We're both quiet for several minutes, while I sip my tea, and when I set the mug down on the flat arm of the chair, her hand stretches out to clasp mine. "You miss him, your android."

"Data isn't _my_ android," I correct automatically, but I know she isn't referring to him that way out of derision. "But yes, I miss him."

"Papa couldn't get through to the _Enterprise_ to call your mother last night. I think you knew this?"

I nod and then realize she probably can't see all that well in the pre-dawn light. "Yeah. I knew. The ship is in the Typhon Expanse. It's this part of space that's on the edge of Klingon space but nowhere near the homeworld, so no one's really explored it. Data said communications would be 'delayed' but today will be a week since I've heard from him. It's been a couple days longer since I've heard from Mom, but we don't typically talk quite as often."

"You're worried."

 _I'm terrified_ , I don't admit, because I don't want to scare my grandmother. "Yeah," I answer. "I know I'm probably overreacting, but between not hearing from Data _at all_ , and this horrible therapist I've been seeing to help with the nightmares, I'm all messed up." I squeeze her hand, feeling her parched skin and wrinkled fingers. "It's one of the reasons I was so eager to come here. I guess I just needed to be coddled, a little bit."

"That's what grandparents are for," Nonna assures me, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Look, _bella_ , the sky is pink now."

I lift my eyes from the shadowy forms of the jetty and the sand, and look up at the lightening sky. "Sun's coming up fast," I say.

"It seems that way, no?" She pauses, hesitating before she asks the question she's been holding back for weeks. "Your mother said you were part of a mission? That you were kidnapped and… _Madonna mia_ … that you were…" She lowers her voice to a whisper on the last word. "…raped?"

"I was a student volunteer helping to plant a colony. I knew one of the families – they were some of Gran's farm interns when I was little – and I needed a community service credit for my transcript. It was supposed be a really easy thing – and then it wasn't."

I've told the story to a few people now, but I'm still not entirely comfortable telling people. But this is my grandmother, who loves me, and wants to help. "There was a crystal alien and it attacked and we had to hide in caves. Data… Data was the one who figured out the caves would protect us… and his brother… his brother was the one who kidnapped me, and raped me."

"An android can have a brother?"

"Dr. Soong created both of them," I tell her. "It's the relationship Lore claimed and Data… god, Nonna, he craves family so much… you can't blame him for believing the best of Lore, at least the first time they met."

"And you turned to him after? Why? Because no emotions means no judging?"

"Data has emotions," I tell her. "They're incredibly subtle, and he would deny that his reactions _are_ emotional, but… Anyway, no, I was crushing on him before I came to Earth _last_ summer. We spend so much time together – math, music, the play – and he really held me together after the Borg when Mom was hurt… And then when Lore accosted me on Starbase 12, and Data watched over me until Mom and Ed got back to the _Enterprise_ … something shifted. I mean…" I stop, realizing something. "Our very first kiss… we're coming up on the anniversary of it."

"I thought you weren't a couple until Christmas…"

"We weren't… exactly… we were… I guess we were trying to figure out what we were… probably for longer than either of us realizes." I feel my lips curving into a smile. "The first time we kissed, it was partly because I knew that was the only way to get the piercing out of my tongue – " I pause in my open musing to explain _that_ – "but it was also because… because I'd wanted to kiss him before I left the ship, but I wasn't ready, and I don't think Data was ready either, and then…"

"You saw the chance and you took it?" I hear the teasing lilt in her voice that is so much like my mother's, and like mine, despite her voice being scratchy from age.

"Something like that."

"And…?" Nonna's question is obviously leading somewhere.

"And? And what?"

"Was it a good kiss?"

I laugh into the summer dawn. "Yes," I say. "All things considered, Nonna, it was a very good kiss."

"And now the two of you are lovers, yes?"

Is it bright enough, now, that she can see me blush? "Nonna!"

"What? You're a healthy young woman, and you've told me you moved in with him. Besides, the bed in your apartment? That's the kind of bed you choose when you have a lover to share it with."

"Nonna, I love you, but you are a bad, bad, woman." I'm teasing her, and we both laugh.

"See, talking to your grandmother, it helps, yes?" The smug satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable.

I nod again, my hand still wrapped around hers, so I know she can see me, and feel the motion. "It helps," I agree, "yes."

And, perhaps oddly, it really does.

We stay on the porch a while longer, until the sun is fully up and the boats in their moorings have become recognizable as such, instead of being triangular silhouettes. "Your grandfather is going to lend you my old flitter," she says. "You'll need a 'car to help your mother with wedding things, and it's easier and cheaper than renting one. Don't refuse him. He loves you, and we're both so glad to have you so close."

"And it will make it easier to visit?" I ask.

She drops my hand, and makes a sort of shrugging motion, "That, too. Now… lets go inside and wake up Papa. Make him take us out to breakfast on your last morning here."

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45642.25**

 **(Friday, 23 August 2368, 1:34 AM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris**

 **To: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Dear Data,

 _(Singing)_

Oh where, oh where, has my Da-a-ta gone?

Oh where, oh where can he beeee?

 _(Speaking, in a tone that seems a bit too bright.)_

It's been ten days since I've heard your voice in person, and ten days since I've had a letter, and the only reason I'm not convinced you're trying to avoid me for some reason is that I haven't heard from Mom or anyone else in just as long.

I mean, I talk to you the most, but, still…

FleetNet hasn't mentioned the _Enterprise_ since that story on Worf, and the only thing keeping me sane is that I'm incredibly busy. We've got all four shows in rehearsal now, and even though I've only got real parts in three of them, there's this unspoken rule that we all watch the rehearsals for the shows we're not in, and let Lach and the rest of the cast know if things are working or not.

Earlier this evening, we took _Songs for a New World_ and a few scenes of _The Tempest_ on a short road trip, performing at The Mountain Winery in Saratoga. It never occurred to me that a winery could be a venue for theatre, but the staff was incredibly welcoming, the view was incredible, and they not only provided amazing food for our backstage snacking, but fed us after our show. I've only been home for fifteen minutes – see? I'm still covered in stage make-up and glitter – but I wanted to see if I could get to you before bed.

Tomorrow night… tonight, really, I'm meeting Ray Barnett and Wesley Crusher for dinner… I owe the Alazar's a visit, and I think they'll enjoy meeting more _Enterprise_ people. Besides, I really want to see Wes eat with his fingers.

 _(Her tone becomes more wistful_ )

I wish I were going to dinner with you. Here, on the ship, anywhere in between. I wish…

 _(She sighs, and then forces herself back into 'chatty Cathy' mode.)_

Sometimes, I think the whole universe is trying to remind me how much I miss you. I switched to a commercial comm account – I'm sure you noticed the different message headers – and while I'm not getting tons of unwanted mail or anything, I keep getting advertisements for information storage or increased bandwidth.

This morning, when I logged in to check mail, the first thing I saw was an ad that would have made me laugh if we were together. **Insufficient Data?** it said. **We can help.** But no amount of storage or bandwidth or free subspace minutes can make the light years feel smaller, or the time until I see you pass more swiftly.

Anyway, it's really late, and I have a busy day tomorrow. They're doing our official headshots for the programs and then I'm being interviewed – _interviewed_ – by the _Chronicle._

I really hope you're alright.

I love you.

\- Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45644.30**

 **(Friday, 23 August 2368, 7:33 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

Alazar's is nicely full when I arrive a few minutes later than I'd planned, but I see Wes and Ray at a table in the window. I knock on the plate glass and grin when both of them are startled. I dart inside before they have entirely regrouped.

"You're late, sis," Ray says, standing up and wrapping me in a hug. "It's good to see you."

"You too," I answer, hugging him back, hard. We step back from each other and I turn to Wes, who has taken his cue from our mutual friend and is also on his feet. The two of us don't typically hug, but when he reaches for me, I allow it. I suspect he's as worried about his mother and the people he once served with as I am about my own, and Data. Our embrace is brief and awkward.

"So, how's the famous actress?" Ray teases as we take our seats.

"I'm not famous," I counter. "I've only done one interview, and I don't think they even reviewed our performances on Hunter's Moon."

"When did you perform on Hunter's Moon?" Wes asks.

I smile, remembering the days Data visited me there, and the combination of his presence and my first taste of being an equal member of a theatre troupe. "Last month. Lach took the five of us from the musical."

"I thought you weren't starting performances until September?" The question is from Ray.

"It was a special thing." I'm about to elaborate when the server comes to the table. She recognizes me as a friend of the owners, and asks if we want the usual selection. I've been bringing Idyllwild people here all summer, and they know my preferences. "Do you trust me?" I ask my tablemates, and when both of them say that they do, I confirm. "Yes, the usual."

"How did you find this place?" Ray asks as he sips a Tuskers beer. I'm drinking sparkling Altair water with lime, and Wes is drinking normal ice water – he's still on probation, he says, and can't be caught drinking, even in summer.

"Data introduced me. The owners' daughter is Tewoldi Alazar, from engineering."

Over our meal, we keep the conversation light – Wesley's summer course-load, Ray's leadership seminar, a description of my typical day – but when dessert arrives, it's Tsage herself who serves us and her face is lined with the kind of worry I've seen on my own mother's face from time to time.

"Zoe, I'm glad to see you. Who are your friends?" Even worried, she's warm and gracious.

"Ensign Ray Barnett, and Cadet Wesley Crusher," I introduce. "Wes and I were classmates on the _Enterprise;_ his mother is the Chief Medical Officer. Ray's billeted there now." I make a wry smile. "Well, not _now_ -now, obviously, but…"

She nods and smiles, placing our cups of coffee and the slices of chocolate torte in front of us. "I do not wish to impose," she begins, "but… I have not heard from Tewoldi in over a week, and it is not like her. We have the FleetNet channel, but there has been nothing." Her accent is always musical, in her concern, it is thicker than I'm used to hearing.

Ray, Wes, and I exchange looks, and I can tell we're all thinking the same thing. "I haven't heard from Mom or Data in ten days," I share. "Wes?"

My friend looks a bit sheepish. "Mom and I aren't exactly talking that much right now… but I haven't heard from anyone on the _Enterprise_ since the twelfth or thirteenth."

Ray is only an ensign, but he's also active-duty. "I haven't even tried to check in," he confesses. "First I was on vacation with An – with my girlfriend – " his correction is done to protect Wesley, I know – "and since then I've been at the leadership seminar. I can do some poking around, if you want, but I haven't heard anything."

"Is this one of those times when 'no news is good news' is supposed to apply?" I snark. "Admiral Nechayev is a personal friend." I address my comments mostly to Tsage. "If I haven't heard from my mother or Data by tomorrow morning, I'll call her, and see what I can find out. Alright?"

Tsage's smile is a watery one. "Thank you Zoe." She forces a lighter, more 'customer friendly' tone and adds, "And thank you for bringing more friends. I hope you all come back." She drifts away to check on other diners, but I make a point of finding her before we leave, and when she pulls me into a fierce hug, I don't mind, because she's using me as a substitute for her daughter, and I'm using her as a stand-in for my own mother.

 **(=A=)**

 _ **(The following is a representative sampling of the contents of Zoe's comm-system inbox. Assume that all messages are video recordings unless otherwise noted.)**_

 **From: Harb Culkin, Generation Next Magazine**

 **To: Ms. Zoe Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

Zoe! Zoe! Zoe!

Harb Culkin here! Saw the interview you did with the _Chronicle_ – great stuff. Are you really only seventeen? You're very well spoken for someone so young.

Let me get to the point: _Generation Next Magazine_ is doing a feature article on young, up-and-coming artists, and we'd love to include you. Have your agent or publicist call me, or just comm-me yourself.

 **From: Lachlan Meade, Idyllwild Theatre Troupe**

 **To: 2368-2ndSeason-TourCast, Idyllwild Theatre Management**

 _(Meade's Scottish brogue is at a medium level of thickness during this missive.)_

Lads and Lasses.

I've attached the document with yer schedules fer the month of September. Please look it over. Please note: we're resting _Songs_ for the first week; you five know what yer doin', an' I dinna want things gettin' stale.

We're gonna be runnin' _Tenor_ in the mornin's on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and 'Tempest' in the afternoons all week. Fridays we'll be runnin' _Tanagra_ , and _Songs_ on the odd morning as needed.

The lot of you should expect that critics and agents will be in and out of rehearsals over the next few weeks. Dinna worry; they dinna bite.

Questions? Shoot'em at me by reply, or catch me at the theatre.

Ta!

 **From: Lachlan Meade, Idyllwild Theatre Troupe**

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth,**

 **To: Zachary Harris, Beach Haven, Centaurus**

Lassling –

The management office and my assistant are getting' tired of the number of calls comin' in fer you. I hired you because yer a bright talent, not because I thought ye'd bring us press, but I canna deny the press is a bonus.

I'm sending this to yer Dad as well, because he's likely yer best source fer advice, but I think ye should consider getting an agent. If ye'd rather, I'm glad t'help ye find a good match also.

Whatever ye decide, don't let it be a worry. Yer doin' good work this summer, lassling, and it's the work that matters.

Ta!

 **ADVERTISEMENT**

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At Oasis MegaSystems, we offer the latest encryption technology, double retina identi-checks, and total access to a live support representative, no matter which sector of the Federation you're physically inhabiting.

Comm us today for quote.

 **From: Zachary Harris, Beach Haven, Centaurus**

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

Darling Zoetrope -

Please do me the favor of a live comm-call when you get home? I miss your smiling face and scathing wit.

Love you to the Gamma Quadrant and back again.

\- Dad.

 **From: The Office of Marvin Gratz, MD, PhD, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Ms. Zoe Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

Ms. Harris,

As you have missed three scheduled appointments in a row, with no calls to cancel, we have pended your files, and released your future appointments.

Please do not hesitate to reschedule at your convenience. Our offices are open 8:00 AM – 5:00 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and 10:00 AM – 7:00 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Regards,

M Gratz / wsmythe

 **From: Annette Butler, University of Edinburgh, Scotland, Earth**

 **To: Zoe Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

Oh my god, Zoe, I saw you on the news! I mean, I saw an interview from the _Chronicle_ and it was you and… why didn't you _tell_ me? The other women in my dorm think I'm a lunatic because as soon as the story came on, I was jumping around our common room going, "That's my friend! I know her!"

We should get together one of these weekends. I miss you!

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45649.24**

 **(Sunday, 25 August 2368, 2:57 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Corsican Flats #2-A, San Francisco, Earth**

 **To: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S Enterprise**_

Data –

I can't decide if I should keep sending letters on the off-chance that you're getting them and just can't respond, or if I should just wait to hear from you.

Friday night, I met Ray and Wes at Alazar's for dinner, and Tsage said she hadn't heard from Tewoldi for over a week, and when Wes and I compared notes, we realized that _nobody_ has heard _anything_ from the _Enterprise_ in - well, it's about two weeks, now. So, I did something I probably shouldn't have.

I called Alynna and asked her if there was anything she could tell me.

I was expecting to be admonished for abusing our friendship, or at least lectured for going around proper channels (whatever they are… I mean, if I can't contact Mom, and I can't contact _you_ , what proper channels are left?), but she was actually alarmed to hear that no one had been able to comm in or had received mail out.

That was Saturday.

On Sunday, I woke to my comm system chiming, and the admiral's face asking if I would mind joining her for morning mass at the cathedral.

I haven't been to mass since Christmas, but I enjoyed attending her church last summer. There's something so comforting in familiar rituals. Besides, even I recognize that when an admiral invites you to hang out with her, 'no' is never the appropriate answer. So I got dressed as fast as I possibly could, and afterward we went to brunch at this tiny little place just up the block – one of those places that tourists love but locals love _more_. We went there a few times last summer – I think I mentioned it.

Anyway, over brunch she told me that the only thing she knew was that other ships had reported making course corrections to avoid an expanding spatial anomaly that _might_ have been in the sector where the _Enterprise_ was last known to be – commercial ships, not Starfleet, so she wasn't revealing anything.

I hadn't realized Starfleet paid that much attention to commercial craft, but Alynna said sometimes it's the people who run cargo who know the most about any given region of space, sort of the way long-haul truckers and small-fleet fisherman know the best roads and waterways on any given planet.

That hadn't occurred to me before, but I thought it was interesting.

In other news, rehearsals are going well. I'm more and more comfortable playing Miranda, but I still feel like I'm too young to play her convincingly. Lach says not to worry, that her innocence and sheltered life make her younger than her chronological age. (Lach _also_ says he likes the way I handle Shakespearean language, though, so… whatever. I'm trying to just play that part and not stress over it.)

I wish I could talk to you about it in real time. I trust your opinions. Also, I just miss hearing your voice. There's this crispness to the way you pronounce certain words - mostly words that begin with a hard 'c,' that just makes me shiver.

Actually, there are a _lot_ of things you do that make me shiver.

God, I'm so pathetic.

God, I wish… I just wish I knew what was going on. I mean, bad news would be devastating, but no news is definitely _not_ good.

Trust me on this.

Okay, deep breaths. I'm attaching my _Chronicle_ interview. Within hours of it going on their feed, Lach said, the theatre was getting calls, and I've even had people messaging me at home asking if I'll be in a magazine, or something.

Dad asked me to call him tonight, so I'd better end this so I can do that.

Oh, about the interview… they asked if I was dating anyone, and I didn't know how open I should be, and that's another thing we have to talk about. I mean, everyone on the ship – my family, my immediate friends – they all know we're a couple, but… I mean, this is just one six-month gig, and then I'm a normal person again, but if I continue with a career in theatre – and I think I want to, but ask me again in mid-November when I'm living out of a suitcase – it's going to be a thing.

Tell me I can do this?

I love you.

\- Zoe.

P.S. I'm still having bad dreams, but the time in Tara's studio, and forcing myself to actually socialize are helping. Really.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45658.47**

 **(Thursday, 29 August 2368, 12:03 AM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

 _Smoke. Smoke and klaxons and bodies floating in space. Screaming and pain and klaxons and the violent tremor that comes from an explosion. I know that I'm dreaming, that I'm caught in a nightmare. Wake up, I tell myself. Wake up! But it doesn't work._

 _Okay, if I can't shake it, maybe I can explore it. I have to be dreaming about explosions for a reason, right?_

 _I look around the place I'm occupying in my dreamscape and catch my reflection. I'm wearing jeans and my purple combat boots. My lips are swollen, my tongue… I stick my tongue out at the mirror – I know it's a mirror now – and there it is, the stud with the data solid in it._

 _I taste blood and acid and my tongue is thick._

 _This isn't the ship. This isn't even Lore's yacht. This is the Starbase._

 _"I had the first taste… and the second. Oh, pigeon… "_

 _Lore's words, but not actually Lore, because I broke him. I broke him while he was breaking me._

 _I look out the window and feel the explosion again, as it rocks through the station. I see the bodies floating in space._

 _I hear his voice. No, not Lore's Data's._

 _I hear words… Reflected shield harmonics, gravitic mines. The boy is the only survivor. The_ _Enterprise_ _has better sensors. Data's words, but not complete sentences._

 _Is your Data protected? Is your Data secure? What's ahead for your Data?_

 _Smoke and klaxons and the deep rocking of the ship when the cosmic filament hits it._

 _Data's head in Will's arms._

 _Data's body scorched._

 _Klaxons and smoke and explosions and pain and "I had the first taste," and Keep Earth Human!_

 _And everything clicks._

 _My nightmare resolves._

 _Wake up. Wake Up! WAKE UP!_

I open my eyes to my bedroom, brightly lit by the full moon shining through the open curtains. I'd left the window open so I could watch the moonrise. My apartment is cold, and I shiver.

Tea. I need tea.

I get out of bed, pulling sweatpants on under my t-shirt. Data's t-shirt. Still chilly, I get the uniform jacket he gave me on Centaurus and put it on as well. The sleeves hang past my hands, like always. If I were to look in the mirror, what would I see – a scared little girl or a young woman wrapped in her lover's clothes? Probably… a bit of both.

I padd out to the kitchen, the floor cold under my bare feet. I don't like wasting replicator credits on tea, but boiling water will take too long.

"Tea, peppermint, hot. Pot of honey."

My order shimmers into existence and I take the tray to the couch, and turn on the entertainment system, flipping channels. Infomercial. Infomercial. Horror movie – not in the mood for blood and gore. Too bad, it's one of my favorites. Keep flipping, Zoe. _Slavegirl Diaries_ – it's meant to be a soft-porn soap opera about Orion sex-workers. I've heard it's actually really well written. Not tonight.

FNN. A reporter is on site at Starbase Twelve. "Just over a year ago, this travel hub was torn apart, quite literally, by a terrorist's bomb. Four days from now, dignitaries from Earth, Andor, Centaurus, and Mars will gather to pay tribute to the victims of the September Second attacks, and honor their memories by being onsite for the reopening of the Green Sector of the starbase…"

I change the channel again, and settle on a family-friendly dramedy about a single mother and her teenaged daughter who live on Hunter's Moon. Having been there, the jokes about everything being wrapped in fluorescent tube-lighting make more sense to me.

I sip my tea.

Monday is the anniversary of the bombing, which means Monday is the anniversary of Lore piercing my tongue. I haven't heard from Data in seventeen days. Either one of those things is enough to give me nightmares, but together… It's no wonder my brain has been messed up half the summer.

Data would appreciate the fact that I solved it myself.

Deanna would suggest that something must have triggered the nightmares in the first place. Does it matter what it was? Maybe. Maybe not. She'd suggested I keep a journal once, or a log, and I'd scoffed at the notion but maybe it isn't such a bad idea, after all. Something to think about…

I drain my cup, and switch the channel again, this time to FleetNet. Still no mention of the _Enterprise._ The cup goes into the recycler and I go back to bed. I don't have rehearsals in the morning, but I do have plans to meet Oberlyne and Tara for lunch before afternoon rehearsals, and they'll worry if I look like I've been up all night.

Lying in the too-big-without-Data-to-share-it bed, I stare at the moon, and just for a second, I imagine it smiling at me, but it's only my imagination.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45660.99**

 **(Thursday, 29 August 2368, 10:09 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

I'm about to get into the bathtub when my comm-system starts going crazy.

 _Incoming message from Lt. Commander Emily Harris. Incoming message from Lt. Commander Deanna Troi._

I hold my breath, one foot on the floor, the other resting on the side of the claw-foot tub, waiting for the rest.

 _Incoming message from Dana Swenson. Incoming message from Keiko O'Brien._

But nothing from Data.

 _Incoming message from Lt. Commander Geordi LaForge. Incoming message from Captain Jean-Luc Picard._

I step away from the tub, and grab the closest thing there is to wrap around myself – Data's jacket. I'd slept in it, and left it on the hook when I showered this morning. I don't even bother to fasten it closed, before I go to the couch and tell the comm to send the messages to the entertainment system screen in chronological order.

 _"Zoe, honey, the ship's been caught in a time loop,"_ my mother's voice. Dana and Keiko's letters – brief notes, really – are much the same.

Geordi's letter is more specific. _"So we were stuck in this loop for seventeen days, Zo' and I probably don't need to tell you that it was Data who figured out how to get us out of it."_

Good to know, G-man, but where _is_ Data? "Play message from Captain Picard," I tell the computer.

His crisp tones inform me only that he has received my last letter but due to the time distortion, it will be several days before he can answer properly.

I'm about to play Deanna's letter when the comm erupts again, this time with a subspace call from the _Bozeman._ The _Bozeman_? I don't know anyone on that ship. But I take the call, and when the image – the quality isn't great – stabilizes, I'm flooded with relief and joy.

"Data! Oh, god, you're alive."

 _"Yes, Zoe. Very much so."_

"The comm started going ballistic about an hour ago and there were all these messages, but nothing from you and… I was so scared and worried and… you were caught in a _time loop_?"

 _"We were,"_ he confirms. _"I am afraid I only have a moment to speak with you. I am aboard the_ _U.S.S. Bozeman_ _, en route to Earth. We will be arriving at San Francisco Spacedock in approximately one week."_ He pauses, seemingly noticing what I'm wearing. _"I do not believe a uniform jacket has ever looked so… stimulating."_

I glance down at the open jacket, and blush, pulling it closed. "I was stepping into the tub and it was close," I explain.

 _"I am gratified that it gives you comfort."_ There's something in his eyes, in his voice, that isn't typically there, but it's only for a second and then it's gone. _"I will not be able to speak with you again until we arrive, but I am certain that Admiral Nechayev will keep you apprised."_ Again, he pauses. _"I will see you soon."_

I don't know what my face looks like to him, but I feel like my smile must be blinding. "Okay," I say. "I love you."

He doesn't tell me he's devoted to me. Instead, he touches his fingers to his lips, and blows me a kiss. That and the slight tilt of his head, the faint flicker of his eyes, are all I need.

The connection drops.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45678.62**

 **(Thursday, 5 September 2368, 09:00 hours, Zulu Time)**

 **San Francisco Spacedock**

Starfleet Arrivals is on lockdown when I get there, but Alynna Nechayev, who also arranged for my transporter pass, has put my name on a list, and when I check in with the security guard he scans my retina and reads my thumbprint and tells me that since I'm meeting a senior officer I should go to Lounge B until I'm called.

Unsurprisingly, the lounge is almost empty. The _Bozeman_ , it seems, has been displaced in time by nearly a century. Instead of family and friends meeting the ship, each group of ten officers has been assigned a counselor and an ombudsman.

I, however, am not meeting one of the time-displaced; I am meeting the acting first officer, on loan from the _Enterprise_.

I'm meeting _Data_ , and I know, because I asked Geordi, that he has never, in his entire life, had anyone meet him at Arrivals.

I get to the lounge just as they open the door from the umbilical walkway that connects to an airlock on the _Bozeman_ , and I join the cadre of officers and counselors waiting to greet the crew. Data, because he is not really part of that crew, is the first of the officers to disembark.

I watch him, fascinated, as he walks purposefully across the umbilical from the ship. His eyes are forward, his posture perfect. In some ways, he's never looked more like the android he is. I shift my position slightly, and just that little movement is enough to draw his attention. His focus changes. Our eyes meet.

I don't precisely run to him, and Data certainly does not run to me, but in the space of a breath we are standing toe to toe. "Surprise," I say by way of a greeting. And then, because the Starfleet-sanctioned press corps has arrived I ask softly, "Am I allowed to hug you here?"

His answer is to gather me into his arms and nuzzle my hair briefly, but I can practically feel him calculating the degree of affection it would appropriate to display before he steps back just enough to have room to raise his hand to my chin, and bend his head so he can touch his lips to mine in a kiss that is chaste enough for public consumption, but leaves no doubt about our relationship. Only then does he breathe my name, adding, "I have missed you."

Somehow, perhaps because two admirals have become a very visible presence, we manage to leave Lounge B without the reporters asking us any questions. Even so, I am certain our picture will make it into the tabloids before morning.

I'm not wrong.

 **(=A=)**

We don't really speak until Data's been cleared through the expedited version of immigration and we've beamed back to the Earth, to San Francisco Spaceport. On the ground, I confuse Data by heading toward the parking facility instead of to the transporter pads or ground transportation.

Realization hits. "In all the letters I sent – did you get any of them? – I think I forgot to mention that my grandparents gave me a loaner-flitter. They'll reclaim it after the wedding. You're welcome to drive it though." I yawn, and don't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "I finally figured out how to avoid the nightmares, but last night I didn't sleep because I was anticipating this morning." I glance sidelong at him. " _Were_ you surprised that I met you?"

"Yes," he confirms, "I was. How did you obtain permission to do so?"

"Alynna arranged it. I'm afraid the payback is that we're going to a dinner at her house tonight, though. Do you mind much? She said you'd probably have to be in briefings most of next week, since you're representing the _Enterprise_ , but that we could have the weekend and Monday before you're called in." I hesitate before unlocking my flitter, for we've arrived at its parking space. "Well, you'll have the weekend and Monday. I have rehearsals tomorrow, but it's only a half-day, since I'm not in the Darmok play."

I'm babbling, and I know it's because I'm nervous about his reaction to the letters I sent – letters that he probably received all at once. It's as though, if I can prevent any silence we won't have to discuss things like my meltdown after the last visit to Dr. Gratz, or the fact that I'm suddenly Lachlan Meade's latest discovery – at least, if you follow entertainment news.

But this is Data, and he's an astute observer of the human condition, in general, and my condition, specifically. Before I can slide into the passenger seat, he takes my hand. "Wait, Zoe." I turn around, so my back is up against the side of the air car and he takes my other hand as well. "I received all your letters, and have watched every recording and read every missive. Your distress also distressed me because I could not be here to help you through it. Had the _Enterprise_ not been caught in the temporal disturbance, I would have come to you immediately."

"Even though you'd only seen me a month before?"

"Yes," he says.

"What did I do to deserve you?" My question is completely serious.

"It is not about deserving, Zoe," Data says, his matter-of-fact delivery only giving his statement more weight. "It is about belonging. We belong together."

I smile, and stretch up to kiss him. "I need to eat and get to rehearsal. Do you want to drop me at the Idyllwild building and take the flitter home?"

"That is an acceptable plan," he agrees. I shift away from the door so he can open it, and I slide into the passenger seat, giving him the access code as I do so.

Data handles the controls of the vehicle as deftly as he pilots everything else, and I enjoy just watching his concentration, his fingers playing over the buttons. I indulge in a brief daydream of the two of us flying somewhere much farther away than downtown San Francisco. Centaurus, maybe, or Terlina III. Our house in the jungle would be a great place for a private… wait… _our_ house? I turn my face away, stare out the window. _Stop it, Zoe… enjoy what you already have. If more is meant to be, it will come in time._

I have no idea where that thought even came from.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45682.38**

 **(Friday, 6 September 2368, 6:02 PM PDT, local time)**

 **San Francisco, Earth**

When I walk through the door of my apartment after an afternoon that had been co-opted by two more interviews and a presentation performance of _Songs for a New World_ (we only performed three songs, no costumes, only the piano for accompaniment) for a couple of theatre 'angels' and the critics from _Beings Magazine_ and FNN, I can tell that something is different. The lights are lower, and the candles on the table have been lit.

"Data?" I call into the softly lit space. "Are you here?"

He emerges from the bedroom wearing the form-fitting red knit shirt I loved seeing him in, tucked into black trousers. "I am here," he says softly, dipping his head to kiss me. "I took the liberty of replicating one of the dishes you introduced me to on the _Enterprise._ "

"You're a saint," I tell him. I drop my purse on the floor and reach for his head with both hands, burying my fingers in his hair, and standing on tiptoe for better access when I return his kiss. The familiar faintly cashew taste of him mixes with the scent of the food he's prepared. "You made zucchini cashew casserole? How did you even get that recipe?" I glance at the table again, and the candles, the perfect place settings, register in a different way. "Are we celebrating something? Have I missed some obscure android-specific holiday?" I'm only half-teasing. There are still personal traditions neither of us has been able to share with the other.

"You have not." He glances at the table as well, and then to the couch. "Will you sit with me?" Curious, I follow him to the couch, where we settle into our usual positions. "Captain Bateson and I had many conversations during the _Bozeman_ 's journey back to Earth," he says. "He spoke of the wife and children he had left behind, and I told him about you. At one point, he asked how long we had been a couple, and I realized that there were many correct answers to that question."

I hadn't really considered that before. "Oh?"

"We could count from the shuttle trip from the _Enterprise_ to Centaurus last December," Data explains, "but we could also claim the date last November, when – "

"- when I saw your paintings of me." I cut him off, finishing his thought.

"Precisely. Other dates are equally significant: the night of your last birthday, the night of your brother's birth…"

"The day we first put Lore's chip in your head…" I add.

"Yes. However, there is one event that I believe could be considered our 'pivotal moment.' It was stardate four-four-six-eight-two-point-one-eight."

"Can you convert that for me?" I should recognize it, but I don't.

"September sixth, twenty-three sixty-seven," Data clarifies. "At approximately twenty-three fifty-six hours, ship's time. It was a moment precipitated by external forces and yet, it was also a turning point in my perception of you, and in our relationship. It was…"

His words suddenly penetrate my brain, and I finish the sentence with him, "… the first time we really kissed."

He continues. "In a sense, today is our anniversary. Just as you realized that your recent spate of nightmares was triggered in part by the anniversary of what happened on Starbase Twelve, I have realized that we must reclaim this day, because it is the day I began to believe I could be an adequate partner, and one day, a suitable mate for you."

My eyes are misty, but I don't cry. Instead I move across the couch so I can wrap myself around him. "Data, you are so much more than 'adequate.' But 'suitable mate?' Really? Any woman would be lucky to have you."

He nuzzles my hair. "Perhaps. But 'any woman' will not suit _me_. Only you do." He places a kiss over my carotid artery, and I know he can feel my pulse racing.

"Is dinner in stasis?" I ask, and the apparent non-sequitur is not lost on him.

"We have time," he answers, lifting me onto his lap, but when my hands meet behind his neck, he surprises me by standing up, cradling me against the solidity of his body, and carrying me to the bedroom, to the bed I've been told is meant for lovers.

I gasp when I realize he's arranged candles here, too.

I reach for Data's shirt, tugging it from his trousers, but he stills my hands. "Please allow me," he requests, and when I nod approval he removes his own clothing first, before undressing me. His long, elegant fingers are cool and gentle against my skin, and the flickering candlelight turns him almost rose-gold.

"God, you're beautiful," I observe, not for the first time.

"As I have reminded you more than once, I am only Data… and you have stolen my line. _You_ are beautiful Zoe." I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, and he lowers his head, first to kiss me and then to whisper in my ear, "There is something I wish to attempt, but if it makes you uncomfortable, we will stop."

"Do I get a hint?" I ask.

"It is something where android strength is an asset," is his cryptic response. "I must ask you to… trust me."

"Always," I say, and mean it.

At first, I am confused. His kisses and touches aren't that different from any other time we've made love, but when I want to lie back, when I need him to be inside me, he surprises me yet again, lifting me from the bed and bearing all of my weight, guiding me downward until he's sheathed within my deepest center.

I grasp his shoulders and cross my ankles behind him, more for balance than anything. I've seen this position – we've seen it together, actually – when we were flipping channels in the hotel on Hunter's Moon, and stopped on one of the questionable porn channels struck by the sheer cheesiness of it. I'd expressed disbelief that anyone could actually _do_ that, never expecting that Data would catalogue the move and try it someday.

 _Multiple techniques, indeed_ , I think, before I can't think because my partner – my lover – is lifting me, lowering me, against him – _on_ him. It's slow, and intense, and when I reach climax my shuddering release seems to come from somewhere so deep inside me I can't imagine anything more, and I bury my face in my boyfriend's neck to keep from scaring the neighbors with the sounds he's elicited.

When it's over, we relocate to the bed for more slow touching and kissing, until my stomach rumbles, ruining the mood. I can't help but burst out laughing. "I'm sorry." The words are pushed out between giggles.

"Perhaps we should have eaten first," Data observes.

"Uh-uh. That performance was better than any food." But we dress and return to the candlelit table and the dinner he admits he asked my mother for help with.

We forego dessert in favor of round two, which happens entirely in the bed.

 **(=A=)**

Afterward, I lay with my head on Data's chest, and his arms around me. I lift my hand to play with his hair – I love his hair – and I ask softly. "Earlier… when you used the phrase 'suitable mate,' did you mean… you were referring to marriage, weren't you?"

"It is something I have considered more and more often as our relationship has progressed," he says. "Do you wish to marry, Zoe?"

For half a second I stop breathing, but I realize he's asking to gather information. "Someday, yeah," I answer truthfully. "Not, you know, tomorrow or anything."

"That would be extremely premature," he agrees.

"But you've thought about it… about us?"

"Did you expect otherwise?" Data asks me. "We have both stated we wish a future together."

"We have," I confirm. "It's just… all my life I've been taught that it's important for women to establish themselves as independent people before they make those sorts of commitments. Gran – Dad's mother – sends this letter to all the girls in the family when they come of age, with this sort of checklist of things you're supposed to do before you get married – have a tragic love affair, travel, live on your own, finish school, start a career."

"It would seem that you have already met many of those obligations," Data observes.

"Yes…" I say. "Except for the big one… I'm not even _starting_ college for another year. And while, ideally, I'd like to delay any big commitments until I've graduated and maybe worked for a year..." I trail off, uncertain of how to complete my thought.

"That is not an unreasonable request," Data begins, but I silence him with a finger to his lips.

"I'd _like_ to delay things," I said, "but I also know that your career is inherently risky, and functionally immortal or not, you can still be harmed. And it isn't just me who's been having a hard time being apart this summer."

"No, it is not."

"I want you to promise me something… "

"Tell me."

"I want you to promise me that you won't propose before I'm nineteen. Because if you do, I won't be able to say no to you, and it's too soon. I'm not ready yet. I'm just barely learning how to be your girlfriend – how to be with an officer. I think… I think I need some significant time in rank before I'm a candidate for promotion to wife." After I finish talking I have a moment of panic. _Had I been too presumptuous?_ "I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Data gathers me more closely against him. "You have said nothing wrong, and I am gratified to know that we are both 'on the same page' where our future is concerned."

"So much for roadmaps with vague topography," I snark, referring to a conversation we had at home in our quarters on the _Enterprise._ But then I remember that we only have the weekend and maybe a few more days beyond that before we have to separate again. "Data… will we ever get to a point where one of us isn't leaving?"

"I do not know when," he answers honestly, though his tone is gentle, "but I am certain that we will 'figure out a way.'"

As the candles burn themselves out, Data and I lie in my darkened bedroom, holding each other and talking. I finally start to drift toward sleep just as the sky is turning light, and I don't fight it, because I know any dreams I might have will be happy ones.

* * *

 **Notes:** First. Dr. Gratz is, yes, _**completely**_ unprofessional. Please trust me when I tell you there's a reason for his behavior, and he may not be what he seems. The four plays in Idyllwild's rotation are: _Lend Me a Tenor_ , _Songs for a New World_ , _The Tempest_ , and a Kabuki-style version of the original fable of Darmok and Jalad, _Tanagra Uncloaked_. This last is my own invention. Niantic, CT is at present, part of East Lyme, CT. The times for dawn and low tide are based on estimates for August of this year. The date of the full moon in August, 2368 is from TimeAndDate DOT com. In contemporary aviation and the military, Zulu time is shorthand for UTC. As Starfleet Command is based in San Francisco, I've decided that Zulu time in the CRUSHverse is based on San Francisco's time zone. Morgan Bateson (played by Kelsey Grammer) is the captain of the _U.S.S. Bozeman_ in the episode "Cause and Effect." Data and Zoe's first kiss takes place in chapter 6 of _Crush II: Ostinato._ Inspiration for the sex scene is courtesy of **ReLive4Love**.


	4. Sarabande

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Paramount/CBS owns the canon stuff, and I own the rest. No androids were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Really._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. This chapter is a little different than the previous three were and the remaining three will be. The only timestamps are in the various news and tabloid reports, but it basically covers the entire month of September, 2368. Unless otherwise noted, all news reports are video feeds, so assume that video of Zoe and Data is accompanying any reports._**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **IV. Sarabande**

 _The Sarabande is a Baroque dance that is said to have come from the Saracens. It is in triple meter, and characteristically the second note of the measure is lengthened, giving the dance a stately, majestic flavor. In dance suites, the Sarabande is typically the third or fourth movement, and is often followed by a menuet (minuet) or gigue (jig)._

 _ **Chronicle Entertainment News**_

 _Dateline: San Francisco, Earth, 7 September 2368_

 _Pakkiat Pekki reporting_

 **X's and O's for the Acting XO of the** _ **U.S.S. Bozeman**_

Approximately ninety years ago, the _U.S.S. Bozeman_ left starbase seventeen never to be heard from again, until, just over a week ago, the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ found her whilst investigating a temporal disturbance in the Typhon Expanse.

On Thursday morning, the ship, long believed to be lost, arrived home with a team of volunteer officers from the _Enterprise_ , including acting executive officer Lt. Commander Data, who was greeted with a kiss and a warm embrace – a sad contrast with the group of counselors and ombudsman awaiting the arrival of the _Bozeman's_ crew.

Still, nothing is so heartwarming as seeing a Starfleet officer's partner welcome them home, and in this case the rather personal welcome was given by none other than the young actress, Zoe Harris, whom we interviewed just a few weeks ago about her work as this year's resident ingénue in the Idyllwild Theatre Troupe's summer season and fall tour.

 _[Video of Data and Zoe's kiss at Spacedock Arrivals dominates the video feed at this point. It's looped several times, from different angles.]_

We're not sure what the extent of their relationship is, but we're guessing that an actress dating an android must come with a special set of challenges. In any case, we wish both Commander Data and Ms. Harris well, and hope they enjoy their time in San Francisco.

Tickets for Idyllwild's two week run here in San Francisco are available now. Ask for 'tickets' to enter the purchase kiosk. Our news division is handling the ongoing story of the _Bozeman_. Ask for 'general news' or 'Starfleet updates' to change feeds.

 **-30-**

"Data, you need to see this." I hand him the padd with the _Chronicle's_ entertainment section currently active. We're sitting outside at the Blue Mermaid, but they've got patio heaters to offset the evening chill. It's been a lazy September Saturday, one of my last few in San Francisco, and loathe as I am to share our time together with others, my friend Annette is in town for a last weekend with Ray before he heads back to the _Enterprise,_ and we've asked them to meet us for dinner.

The fact that it's technically our first double-date is hovering in my mind, but I don't bring it up.

My partner sets his own device aside and accepts mine, reading the text-only version first, then activating the control to watch the actual video feed. His expressions are never broad, but his face does change subtly as he views the article I'd flagged.

"It would seem we are more of a story than I anticipated."

"Apparently." My tone is dry, but inside I'm terrified that he'll decide our relationship isn't actually worth the fuss of media attention, despite the fact that the subject of marriage had been broached the night before. "If you want to transfer to 'fleet housing, after all…" I offer, not because I want him out of my apartment, but because I want to give him an 'out.'

"I do _not_." His emphasis on the final word is as much of an emotional display as I'm likely to get, and one he would deny is based in emotions at all. "I do not," he repeats, in a more level tone. He sets the padd aside and covers my hand with his. "We are already cohabitating on the _Enterprise_ ; I do not see any reason to behave as if that is not so, merely because we are both on Earth."

"Well, it _is_ just one story," I say. "And it's not even that bad, but then the _Chronicle_ has a strongly pro-Starfleet bent. They always have."

"Have you always been this aware of the media?" Data asks.

"You _know_ who my father is," I remind him. "There were always reporters around, hoping to catch him cheating on Mom again, or trying to find out about his next project. I thought… I don't know… I thought I'd be a little more advanced in my career – in my _life_ – before I had to deal with it directly."

"It is not 'all you,'" Data observes. "Perhaps I was naïve to believe that we could continue to exist 'beyond sensor range' indefinitely."

"You haven't been in the media since the stories on the launch of the _Enterprise_." I know because when I first started crushing on him, I spent hours scouring the news nets for anything I could find about his younger days. Even the hearing which had codified his status as person, not property, had either never been a story, or had been expunged from the public records.

"That is true. Nevertheless, I have had my own experiences with the press, especially in my first days at the Academy."

"That must have been rough for you."

"Many things about my first years of activity could be considered 'rough,'" he agrees.

"You'll tell me about them, sometime?"

He opens his mouth to answer but is cut off by the happy voices of my friends approaching the table. Still, he meets my eyes for a moment and that look is enough to assure me that at some point I will know his whole story.

We both rise, so I can exchange hugs with Annette and Ray. Annette reminds Data that, like me, she's no longer his student, and he accepts her embrace with grace, and meet's Ray's handshake with his own.

"Thank you for letting us join you, sir," Ray greets him, and for a moment I'm thrown. Neither of them is in uniform, and on the _Enterprise_ things are less formal than you might expect.

"Zoe considers you to be family, Ray," Data answers, making a point of using my 'adopted' brother's name. "And you have been a good friend to her. Please call me Data, at least while we are off duty."

Ray's answering blush and stammer elicit a grin from me, and a kiss on the cheek from Annette.

Over dinner, we talk about Ray's enrichment courses, and Data's journey with the _Bozeman._ Annette talks about her first week at her university, and I share the news that we're only a week away, now, from pre-tour preview performances.

"If there's any chance you can come back next week," I tell Annette, "I can get you comps to our opening weekend."

"I'll try," my friend promises, and I know she means it.

The restaurant is known as a chowder house, but the server doesn't blink an eye when Data asks for vegetarian options, and then chooses a corn chowder rather than any of the six varieties of clam also offered. I hesitate, not wanting to offend him, but he touches my hand, and whispers, "Have what you like, Zoe. You cannot offend me."

I know that isn't _quite_ true, but it's true for this circumstance. I order the soup I want – a sampler of three of their flavors, including one made with roasted red peppers, but I skip the hamburger I'm secretly craving and choose chili rellenos as my entrée instead. Annette and Ray order a seafood dish and pasta respectively.

The conversation remains lively.

"Data, Zoe said you visited her when she was at Hunter's Moon; did you get to see her perform?"

"I would not have missed it," he answers Annette's question, elaborating, "The entire cast was extremely well chosen, and quite effective in their roles."

"But Zoe was your favorite, wasn't she?" my friend teases.

"I confess that she may have distracted me from the other performers," he hedges, rather than denying that he has favorites of anything.

We finish eating, and discuss dessert, but when our server returns to the table, he asks, "Excuse me, but… are you two the actress and the android who were in the _Chronicle'_ s newsfeeds this morning?"

Data and I share a look, before he confirms our identities.

"That's so cool," the server gushes. "You looked so good together." There's nothing offensive in what he's said, but I'm put off enough that I almost want to skip dessert. However, our server – Clyde – is astute enough to realize my discomfort. "If you're interested, we make a chocolate-almond gateau here that is completely scrumptious. Let me comp it as an apology for embarrassing you."

I open my mouth to protest, but I can see that Ray and Annette both want to try the cake as much as I would under normal circumstances. "That sounds lovely," I say. "Could we get a round of cappuccinos to go with it?"

When Annette and I leave the table to use the restroom, I pause to whisper in Data's ear: "Leave a big tip."

He does.

 **(=A=)**

 _ **The Galactic Gaper**_

 _Dateline: San Francisco, Earth, 9 September 2368_

 _Umrod Chaze, reporting_

 **Starfleet's Android Caught in Lip-lock with Centauran Celeb's Scion**

Lt. Commander Data, Starfleet's gold-hued golden boy, second officer of the illustrious flagship, _U.S.S. Enterprise_ arrived on Earth via San Francisco Spacedock on Thursday, where he was met with a warm groping – er – _greeting –_ from celebrity composer Zachary Harris's only daughter Zoe, who's currently part of the Idyllwild Theatre Troupe's summer season.

It's no secret that Commander Data is the only artificial life form serving in Starfleet, but as far as we can tell, his relationship with Ms. Harris is as real as it gets.

Elsewhere in the Federation, that Ambassador of Amour, Lwaxana Troi of Betazed, has recently separated from her latest long-term beau. Is she on the prowl again? Daughters, lock up your well-fortuned fathers.

 **-30-**

"Power off," I instruct the entertainment system in my living room. "So much for us only being in the _Chronicle_ ," I tell Data. "I think… I think Lach is right. I need to start assembling a team. God. We don't even start previews until Friday – and I'm not even going to mention that Friday's the thirteenth."

"I believe you are making more of this than you should," Data responds. "However, even without this sort of media attention, if you wish your career in the performing arts to be a successful one, you will eventually require the professional services of an agent."

"And a PR person," I add. "Dad can't come and help me but my uncle is on Earth – "

"Zane?"

"Yes. He's been holed up down in Baja working on new songs, but I have his private contact code, and he knows how to navigate all this." I waved my hand in the direction of the darkened screen. "I love you, and I know you can do a lot more than you let on, but if this is really the career I'm choosing, I'm going to need more help than you can give."

"I concur," he said. "Do you wish me to be part of the conversation with your uncle?"

"I don't know. I mean… I really don't… I haven't thought that far. I guess I should call him first, and we should take it from there."

"That would seem to be a wise course of action."

I reach for his hand, squeeze it once and let go, then relocate to the desk where the main comm is. Data remains on the couch, giving me the illusion of privacy.

It takes a few minutes for the call to go through, but eventually my uncle's dark eyes are staring at me from his too-tanned face. _"Zoe-licious! What's up with you?"_ he asks. _"You aren't still on Earth, are you?"_

"Through the first week of October, yes. Mom's wedding is on the fifth." I wait for him to process that. "I'd invite you, but I think it would be a little weird."

 _"A little, yeah, but tell Em congrats for me."_

"I'll do that. Look… I need…" I rolled my eyes. "I cannot believe I'm saying this out loud, and don't you dare crow about it, but, I need your help."

 _"I don't crow,"_ he insists. _"Well, not much. But this is me, not crowing. What's up, kidlet?"_

I filled him in on the calls I'd been getting for the past month and the stories about Data and me. "Lach said I need to consider getting an agent and Dad thinks I need a public relations person, and as much as I've been on the fringes of his career and yours, I have no idea how that works, only that people keep calling asking to represent me." I pause. "Look, you know, and I know, that for us – for entertainers – there's really no such thing as _bad_ publicity, but I'm concerned about Data."

 _"Is he there?"_

In that moment, I realize that my uncle is all too aware of the stories about us. "He's staying with me for the month while he's on temporary assignment here," I say. "And he's not leaving. I moved into his quarters before I left the _Enterprise_."

 _"Let me talk to him a minute."_

"Sure." I glance over at Data, who isn't even pretending not to be listening. Then again, with his hearing, he could be two floors up and still be able to follow our conversation, if he really wanted to. "I'm transferring you to the entertainment console. Back in a minute." I rejoin Data on the couch as the comm-feed switches to the big screen in the living room.

 _"Data, how are you?"_ my uncle greets when the feed resets.

"I am well," my boyfriend answers. "Zoe has apprised you of our situation?" I love that he asks, even though he heard the whole thing.

 _"She has. I think my brother and Lachlan Meade are right – she needs representation, and you both probably need help with this current story. There's a firm called Sesame that does both – entertainment representation and management, and public relations. I'll put a call in to my guy tonight."_ He pauses, and seems to assess the two of us. Whether to make a statement or because he knows I like it, Data puts his arm around me while my uncle speaks. _"If Starfleet has a press rep,"_ he adds _, "you should call them. The_ _Chronicle_ _piece wasn't bad, but the_ _Gaper_ _is getting into tabloid territory."_

"I will do so," Data promises.

 _"One more thing,"_ my uncle tacks on, though he's clearly ready for the call to end, _"Commander Data, my niece is precious to me. Whatever happens… you're the person in the best position to protect her, but you're also the person most able to hurt her. See that you don't."_

"Zane! That really wasn't necessary!" I don't quite yell at him.

But Data seems to understand that my uncle is speaking out of love and concern. "Mr. Harris," he says, using the same formality Zane did. "I would never intentionally harm Zoe, nor will I allow her to be harmed by another. I am devoted to her."

I'm looking at the screen, not at my partner, but I can tell from my uncle's reaction that Data's expression is as open, as naked, as he's capable of being. As if he's willing the man on the screen to trust him as much as I do.

It's enough.

 _"Thank you,"_ Zane says, nodding once. He directs his final question for me, _"Zach says you start previews on Friday; any chance of comps for your favorite uncle?"_

"You're my _only_ uncle," I feel obligated to point out. "Friday or Saturday, and how many? I'll put you on the list."

He gives me the information I require, and we end the call.

I settle back against the couch, nestling into Data's embrace as his arm is still around me. He doesn't speak, but he nuzzles my hair and kisses the top of my head and just lets me exist in his solid presence for a while.

 **(=A=)**

 _ **Generation Next! Magazine**_

 _Dateline: San Francisco, Earth, 12 September 2368_

 _Harb Culkin, reporting_

 **Idyllwild Previews Begin, Idyllwild Ingénue Signs with SESAME**

Hi there, Gentle beings! Harb Culkin here with today's entertainment headlines.

Idyllwild Theatre Troupe's fall tour previews launch tomorrow night at their space in SoMa. This year's tour slate includes the Jason Robert Brown song-cycle _Songs for a New World,_ Shakespeare's storm-tossed tragicomedy _The Tempest_ , the Ken Ludwig backstage farce _Lend Me a Tenor,_ and the newly commissioned stage version of the Children of Tamar fable of Darmok and Jalad, _Tanagra Uncloaked._

Tickets are selling out quickly. Ask for 'ticket kiosk' to purchase yours. The preview performances run this Friday through Sunday, and Thursday through Sunday for the following two weekends. Ask for 'Idyllwild schedule' to determine which play is slated for any given date.

Related news, Idyllwild's young ingénue Zoe Harris (Woman 1 in _Songs_ , Miranda in _Tempest_ , understudy for Maggie in _Tenor),_ Lachlan Meade's latest discovery, and apparent significant other of Starfleet's android officer Lt. Commander Data of the _U.S.S. Enterprise,_ has signed with SESAME, the entertainment representation and PR agency known more properly as Stinson, Erickson, Summers, Allen, Mosby, and Echols. Rumor has it she's being repped by senior partner Bernadette "Bernie" Stinson herself.

Young Ms. Harris, age 17, is the most recent member of the Harris family of Centaurus to 'go pro' as it were. Her father is composer/conductor Zachary Harris, current musical director of the Capitol City Orchestra on Centaurus, while her uncle, Zane Harris is the lead singer/songwriter for his eponymous rock band Zane and the Zetabytes.

We were fortunate to catch Ms. Harris in performance with _Songs for a New World_ during a limited engagement at Hunters Moon earlier this summer, and we're excited to see how her career progresses as she – and her art – matures.

Repeat: Tickets are selling out quickly. Ask for 'ticket kiosk' to purchase yours. The preview performances run this Friday through Sunday, and Thursday through Sunday for the following two weekends. Ask for 'Idyllwild schedule' to determine which play is slated for a given date.

 **\- 30 –**

"Take this off for me?" I ask Data in my dressing room at Idyllwild's theatre. I hold out my wrist so he can remove the string of beads I almost never take off by choice. "I can't wear them with Miranda's costume, and I forgot to leave them at home."

My wrist feels too light and oddly naked without the bracelet there. "There's a jewelry bag inside the garment bag with my dress for the after-party," I tell my partner, who has been a source of quiet support for most of the day. I'm not nervous about my performance, but I'm anxious for the people I care about, at least those who are in attendance tonight, to like what I do.

"I will ensure that they are safe," Data responds.

"Thank you," I say. I take a moment to look at him – really _look_ at him – for the first time that day. "Not just for this, but, for being here. For coming to opening night, and being my date for the after-party, and putting up with the press."

"I suspect there will be more press to 'put up with' after tonight," he says.

"Oh, god, don't remind me," I protest. "I don't want to be a celebrity; I just want to be good at what I do."

"I believe the critics who have seen your work already believe that you are. As for the rest, we will navigate this, as we have every challenge we have faced in the past year: together."

"Have I mentioned lately how awesome you are?"

I can almost see him calculating the number of times, then thinking better of stating that number. "A good many times," he says in a slightly stilted tone.

"Have I mentioned how sexy you look in your dress uniform?" My own tone is flirtatious. "Think I could persuade you to come home with me tonight?"

"Perhaps," he answers, playing along. "But only if my girlfriend does not object. She is very possessive."

"Is she? Pity. Are you and she very serious?"

"Extremely," he states, but then he draws me against him and kisses me softly, and whispers. "I am devoted to her." In his more usual tone, he adds, "I must go take my seat, Zoe. You will…" He pauses, pulls away, gives me the faint hint of a smile that I seem to be the only one to provoke. "Break a leg."

I laugh. "Thank you. I love you. I'll see you after."

He leaves the room to take his place in the audience. I have more people here supporting me than I'd initially expected – Data, of course, because of his temporary assignment to 'fleet HQ – Annette, in for the weekend from her university in Scotland, and Wesley on a pass from the Academy, as well as my uncle Zane and his date _du jour_ , and Alynna Nechayev. She's actually one of the Troupe's major donors, but still, it's nice that she's here on opening night.

The performance goes smoothly, and for the first time I don't feel too young to be playing Miranda, even though the character is supposed to be twenty-five. It's difficult to gauge the audience reaction from the stage, but I think we all have the sense that they're totally with us, and that support feeds our performances, making them stronger. That give-and-take is something you can never get from a holo-novel or a tri-vee show, no matter how much the techies try.

When we are given a standing ovation, not one of us feels like we didn't earn it.

 **(=A=)**

The after-party is at the rooftop bar of the hotel across the street, and it's already in full swing when Data escorts me in, just after Lach and Oberlyne. There are reporters waiting to snap pictures – holo-pix and still photos – but the rule is that there are no interviews allowed at the party, and I'm suddenly grateful for that.

"Commander Data, Ms. Harris, over here please?" Someone is calling us, and when we both turn toward the voice, camera flash nearly blinds me.

"Are you alright?" Data asks, as I try to blink away the starbursts.

"Flash-blind, but I'll be fine in a minute. Remind me to acquire the affectation of wearing sunglasses everywhere. I'll get them in fashion colors and be considered eccentric, but at least my eyes won't sting."

"I will have a word with the photographer if you wish?"

"No, it's okay. Lach said they're kicking them out after fifteen minutes, anyway. Let's go find a table. And something to eat? I'm starving."

We end up sharing a table with the admiral and a couple of her colleagues. "Zoe," she greets warmly. "I knew you were talented, dear, but you outdid yourself tonight. Congratulations. Commander Data, it's good to see you again."

"Thank you, sir," he says.

"Have you met Commanders Cregg and Kim?" the small, blonde woman asks, indicating each in turn. "Lt. Commander Data is the only officer to ever devise a solution to the Picard Maneuver," she tells them. I can tell there's a round of 'fleet chatter about to begin, but they actually delay it until after I've had something to eat, and she's checked in with me about how things are going with the press, and with my mother.

Eventually, though, Commander Cregg turns to Data and asks if he's the same Lt. Commander Data who was in temporary command of the _Sutherland_ back in January. I'm actually enjoying watching him be the focus of the conversation. Seeing him talk about his work with people who both understand and appreciate it is fantastic, and besides, Data _should_ get to socialize, too – but I know my eyes will begin to glaze over at any moment.

I am rescued by the sudden re-appearance of Lach. "Admiral, Commanders, thank ye all for coming tonight." His brogue is barely discernible, I note. _Interesting._ "I hope ye'll join us next week when we open _Tanagra_. D'ye mind if I steal the lassling away from you for a bit?"

"If I'm not back in half an hour come find me?" I whisper to Data. The Admiral, her friends, and my partner all give their leave for me to part company with them for a while, and I let Lach lead me away.

"Were you rescuing me from Starfleet shoptalk, or do you actually need me?"

"Both, m'dear. Both."

"Oh?"

" _Society Page_ wants a picture of the whole cast, and I thought you'd actually like t'meet Harb Culkin."

"From _Generation Next!_?"

"Aye, lassling. He wants to do a feature on you."

"I think he's supposed to go through Bernie…"

We're threading our way through the crowd as we talk, and even though people are pausing us to offer compliments, we don't linger with any of them, just nod politely, or smile, and murmur polite responses.

Finally, we're at the back of the bar, inside the building, rather than out in the (admittedly climate-controlled) open air, where the rest of the cast has assembled, and Simon, who is our Prospero as well as Man 1 in _Songs_ is telling some story about his time in the Curiosity Shakespeare Company on Mars, but he interrupts himself when Lach and I approach.

"And there's our shining starlet. Well done tonight Zoe." He sketches a bow, despite being seated, and I curtsey in return, as all of us laugh. "Isn't your partner here?" His rusty voice is laden with mischief.

"He was waylaid by Admiral Nechayev."

"Poor lad," Lach puts in.

"She's really not that bad," I insist. "Well, she's not that bad if you don't report to her." Again there is laughter from the group.

A small but dapper man rises from the darkest corner of this alcove and makes his way toward me. He's got a classic Mediterranean olive complexion, and dark eyes that shine with good humor. "Ms. Harris," he greets extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"This is Harb, lassling," Lach informs me. "Harb Culkin."

"Call me Harb."

"Only if you call me Zoe," I counter, meeting his hand with mine. I try to make my shake firm and professional, but I'm not sure if I manage it.

"I hear Bernie Stinson is representing you." It's a statement, not a question.

"As of a couple days ago, yes," I confirm.

"If she vouches for me, will you do an interview – you and your android….?" He lets the sentence trail off so I can supply my own word.

And suddenly I'm stuck. Data and I have had many conversations about what our relationship means to us, but we've never discussed the way to present ourselves. "I'll happily talk to you about my work with Idyllwild," I say after a too-obvious pause. "But I can't speak for Commander Data." I meet his eyes and wait for him to respond.

For a moment, it seems as though he doesn't know quite how to answer me, but then he nods and shakes his head slightly as a rueful smile takes over his face. "Fair enough," he says. "I'll have my assistant comm Bernie in the morning. But Zoe… you should consider asking the commander. Bright young ingénues sell, but bright young ingénues dating Starfleet officers sell more."

He turns away before I can respond, and I hear him murmuring something to Lach, though I can't discern the actual words. Both men turn their heads in my direction, but I shake off the feeling of being scrutinized because Simon is insisting I take his spot on one of the sofas.

"Why don't I just perch on the arm?" I suggest and move into the group more completely. There's a _Society Page_ photographer directing the movements of several camera-drones, and every so often there are soft pops of flash. It's almost as though miniature fireworks are going off.

I listen as Simon spins a story about one of his first professional performances. "So there I am," he said. "I've finished act two, and for some reason, I get it in my head it's time to go home. I take off my costume, throw on street clothes, and I'm half way out of the theatre when I hear the music that leads in act three. I rush back inside, and make it onto the stage wearing the bottom half of my costume and a t-shirt that says 'Shakespeare! The play's the thing!'"

"What happened?" Somak has his curious expression on.

"Oh, the audience was extremely confused, and the director almost fired me, but her daughter intervened and now Danielle and I are a month away from our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary."

"That's so sweet!" I can't help but explain.

The photographer gathers her drones, and thanks us all for letting her eavesdrop on our evening, but the truth is, I was so relaxed, and so engaged by Simon's story that not only had I forgotten the cameras were there, but I start when someone touches my shoulder.

"Data!"

"You asked me to find you in half an hour," he reminds me. "I am afraid it has been considerably longer."

In fact, it is nearly two in the morning, and, just as Data has come to find me, Danielle, Tricia, and Jeremy suddenly become very visible as well, as they come to claim their spouses. There are brief, quiet greetings, followed nearly immediately by warm goodbyes, and the party begins to disperse.

The flitter ride back to our apartment isn't a long one, and after we land on the rooftop parking bay, Data comes to my side and supports me as I slide to the ground while wearing heels – something I'm still not accustomed to doing.

I wobble, and he catches me, his hands on my upper arms. I look up into his face, and I'm struck by how much I love him, and how fortunate I am that he's been given this month-long assignment on Earth when he was originally supposed to be back on the _Enterprise_ by now. I can't help stretching up to kiss him.

The second our lips meet, camera-flashes light up the sky around us, and just as quickly, the camera-drones disappear into the night.

I want to ask Data if he noticed a company ID or logo on any of the cameras, but he beats me to it. "I was looking at you, and did not see the drones before the flashes went off, and the bright lights made it impossible to see anything but silhouettes. Come, we should go inside. It is late, and you have two performances tomorrow."

"Are you going to spend all night attempting to learn who sent those?"

"No," he says, taking my arm and guiding me toward the stairwell, down the stairs, and into the apartment. Once inside, he helps me off with my coat, saying, "I am going to contact the authorities and make a report while you prepare for bed. Please be sure you communicate with Ms. Stinson in the morning; she will need to know what has transpired."

I do his bidding, washing my makeup off, and changing out of my dress and into Data's purloined Starfleet Academy t-shirt. I hear his voice on the comm, but by the time I return to the living room he has severed the connection. "Anything I need to know?" I ask.

"Not at this time. Are you ready for bed?"

"Beyond ready. Kiss me goodnight?" But he rises from the desk, and follows me back to the bedroom. "You don't have to…" I begin, meaning to tell him yet again that I don't expect him to waste every night in bed with me.

"I _want_ to," Data insists, interrupting me. "I am aware that spending nights in our bed is not a requirement of our relationship. I believe _you_ are aware that there will be times when I will not be able to do so. Must I remind you that I will be returning to the _Enterprise_ after your mother's wedding, when your tour starts?"

I shake my head. "No. I know this month has been a gift. I know you're here because you want to be, I'm just… Harb Culkin from that magazine – _Generation Next!_? – he asked me if I'd do an interview with him if Bernie said it was a good idea, and he suggested you be part of it." I climb into the bed while I speak. "He tried to get me to put a label on us. We use words like boyfriend and girlfriend, partner, lover – but those are between us. I didn't know… I _don't_ know how to answer that, how to refer to you, _if_ I should refer to you…."

Data is stripping off his uniform as I speak, but despite this, I have no doubt his entire focus is on me, and what I am saying. He gets in bed beside me, and breathes my name – an invitation to turn toward him, which I do. His yellow eyes are warm and steady and somehow more intense than I've ever seen them, and his hand comes to rest on my hip, the way it did during our first such conversation, on my birthday, in our bed at home.

"I have been considering this since our initial appearance in the press. I do not believe either of us would be served by lying about our relationship. I do not believe 'lover' is considered to be appropriate in 'polite' society, but I have no objection to either 'boyfriend' or 'partner.'"

"So the interview?"

"I must contact Captain Picard, but if he and the Starfleet press office approve, I will participate in the interview with you."

I wriggle my hand free of the covers and lift it to his face, then lean up on my other arm, so I can kiss him. "I love you." I speak the words against his mouth.

But Data doesn't tell me that he's devoted to me. Instead, he squeezes my hip lightly, and shifts his position so that his forehead is pressed to mine, and for a long moment he just holds me, as if everything I mean to him is in his grip. "My Zoe," he says, "my dearest one."

 **(=A=)**

 _ **The Probe**_

 _Dateline: San Francisco, Earth, 17 September 2368_

 _Vilaz Ngalui, reporting_

 **Starfleet's Star Android Likes 'Em Young**

It can't be easy for an android to find a human companion his own age, but according to a source close to Starfleet's Commander Data his tastes would run young even for an organic Earthling.

The source, who declined to be interviewed except by voice link, implied that the relationship between Commander Data and not-quite-eighteen-year-old Zoe Harris, aspiring actress and daughter of composer/conductor Zachary Harris, has been a bit more than platonic for some time now, perhaps since she was a tender fifteen.

"She is not an 'ingénue', but she plays one onstage," says the source. "And Commander Data, whose obsession to become human in all ways is well known, knows enough about human male sexuality to know a willing pigeon when he finds one."

While the pair have been seen out and about in San Francisco in recent weeks they have been cagey about PDA, though our source hints at a more complete picture.

 _[Video feed from the cameras that were on the rooftop of Zoe's apartment, including feed of she and Data entering the stairwell plays from here to the end, with the reporter's face in a bubble in one corner of the screen.]_

"Ask Miss Harris about her living arrangements aboard the Enterprise. Ask her about her 'oral jewelry' and how it was removed. Ask Commander Data who sits in his lap when his cat is otherwise occupied."

This reporter plans to reach out to the couple to determine how much of a couple they may be... though _The Probe_ 's source says that will be fruitless.

"If the truth comes out, it will not be from the Golden Android and his little pigeon."

To follow this story and further developments, ask for 'subscription.' To access related stories, ask for any of the following headlines: 'Android's Ex: I Transferred to Another Ship to Mend My Broken Heart,' 'Reliable Source says Zoe Harris has history of mental health issues,' or 'Sex on the Beach? School chums say Zoe Harris was party girl at home on Centaurus.'

 **\- 30 -**

"God, it just makes me so _angry!_ " I am with Oberlyne and Tara in a vintage dress shop on the Haight. It's the same store where my mother found her wedding dress, via their digital catalogue, and I'm here to try on the two or three dresses that I liked and she approved for her maid of honor – me.

"Almost every entertainer goes through some kind of issue with the press at some point in their career," Oberlyne says. "Lach certainly is no stranger to the kind of trash _The Probe_ publishes. At one point they did a smear campaign against him, saying that he had affairs with all of his lead actresses."

"I remember that, I think," Tara adds. "It was just when Somak and I were starting to date, and he hadn't been exposed to such things in the part of Vulcan where he's from."

"I grew up with it," I share from behind the curtain – an actual cloth curtain – in the dressing room. "I mean, it was my Dad being dragged through the tabloids, and Mom was barely mentioned, but… I don't know… in retrospect, I think everyone probably went through a lot of effort to make sure it didn't touch me." I pull the curtain aside and step out in the second of dresses – we'd summarily vetoed the first without me bothering to try it on. "It's very different when there are camera drones waiting outside the place where you _live_."

"I'm surprised Data didn't grab a phaser and start doing target practice." Oberlyne is looking me up and down as she speaks. "This one isn't bad, but that sweetheart neckline screams 'prom' to me, and I don't think that's quite the look you're going for."

"No," I agree. "Tara?"

"I'm surprised _you_ didn't grab a weapon and start doing target practice," the younger woman quips.

"Tara!"

"Oh, you want my opinion about the dress?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "If you don't mind?"

"It makes you look sweet and innocent, and almost completely unlike the funny, snarky, Zoe Harris I know," she says. "Oberlyne's right. Definitely too high school."

"I suppose if I point out that technically, I'm still _in_ high school you'd tell me it was irrelevant?"

"Are you?" Tara blinks her blue eyes at me with practiced guilelessness. "I hadn't noticed. How's it going, anyway?"

"Oh, _super,_ " I snark as I return to the dressing room to try on dress number three. "The tutor the company contracted with can't even teach my subjects. I'm beginning to wish I'd just taken the equivalency test."

"Why didn't you?" Oberlyne's question is one I've been asking myself.

"Lots of reasons," I hedge, but I realize that these two women have reached out to me and befriended me, and they deserve a real answer. "First, I really want to graduate with what's left of my class on the _Enterprise_. There aren't a lot of us, but we've become family to each other. Second, it would mean missing half a year of time where Data and I are in the same place. This month has been amazing, but the reality is that he's the second officer of the flagship, and I'm probably going to be back on Earth next September, and I feel like, if we're going to have the future we want, those months are crucial." I don't mention that it will also be the last few months I'll spend in close proximity to my mother. At some point, that's become secondary, or even tertiary, in my list of reasons for wanting to be back at home on the ship.

Tara's question is the same one all of my friends and family have been asking. "How serious are you two, Zoe? I mean… you're not even eighteen, but you make it seem like you and Data are a permanent thing."

My reply is muffled because I'm slipping the last dress over my head. "We are." I smooth the dress down and can tell even without the reactions of my friends that this is the one. It's a pale peach sheath, a basic tank dress, really, tea length. But there's an overlay – a sort of misty sage green that's completely sheer – just the hint of color. I love the dress so much that I decide it's coming home with me, no matter what. I take a deep breath and open the curtain again.

I don't know what Oberlyne had planned to say, but when I step out of the dressing alcove, she gasps. "Oh… Zoe. That's perfect."

"You look amazing," Tara seconds. "Take your hair out of that pony tail for a moment, would you?"

I do as she asks, first running my hands through my hair to break up the place where the elastic pinched it, and then shaking my head so my hair falls more naturally. "Ohhh," the younger of the two women with me croons. "You should only ever wear that dress."

Oberlyne chuckles, adding, "Data's head is going to start smoking when…" she trails off, reacting to the look on my face. "Not funny?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I know where you were going, but… I saw him all smoked and scorched once, and…" I can't help but shudder. "If I never see him that way again, it will be too soon." I step more fully into the focus of the three-way mirror, and survey myself in the dress, and manage a sincere smile. "This is _definitely_ the dress."

 **(=A=)**

 _ **Financial Times**_

 _Dateline: 22 September, 2368, San Francisco, Earth_

 _Stoxor, reporting_

Ferengar's Grand Nagus has issued a statement claiming that the recent devaluation of gold-pressed latinum has been caused by an unexpected upsurge in Spican flame gems trickling in from an unconfirmed source. Investigations suggest that said source may be part of a jewel trafficking consortium located in the Typhon Expanse.

Scandal Sells! Idyllwild Theater Troupe's last preview weekend begins this Thursday, and tickets are already sold out here on Earth, and for the first three tour stops at Luna Colony, Curiosity Village, Mars, and Risa. This tour features ingénue Zoe Harris, significant other of Starfleet's Lt. Commander Data, the only sentient android in the Federation.

Ask for 'gems' to find out more about the jewel trafficking story. Ask for 'kiosk' to attempt to buy tickets to Idyllwild's future tour stops.

 **-30-**

"Zoe, honey, you look lovely." Bernadette "Bernie" Stinson – my agent - greets me. She's about five-four with dark red hair so vibrant that it's obvious it's not from a natural source, and a voice that rasps and squeaks like old paper and a rusty hinge. She's also old. I'm not sure of her exact age, but I know it's somewhere between eighty-seven and a thousand Terran standard years. "Thank you for taking the time." She leans forward so we can exchange cheek to cheek air kisses, and I try not to choke on the cloud of her perfume. Nothing so refined as my Nonna's Chanel. This woman is wearing something called _Taboo._

"This is my partner," I say, using the word in public for the first time, "Lt. Commander Data."

"Data, bubbula, it's good to meet you in person. Do you always wear your uniform to brunch? Never mind, it's perfect. Very upstanding. Very hot." She is pumping his hand with both of hers the entire time she speaks. "Okay. Let's do this. Harby's waiting at our table."

She turns on her four-inch heels and leads us on a brisk walk through the restaurant to the table in question.

Harb Culkin is, indeed, waiting for us, and he's as dapper today in the sunlight streaming in from the ocean-side windows of The Cliff House as he was when I first met him over a week ago. He rises to greet us exchanging air kisses first with Bernie, then with me, and extending his hand to Data for a crisp shake. "Zoe, Data – is it alright if I use your name?" He waits the briefest moment for my boyfriend's nod, and then continues, "Thank you for coming. Shall we order first?"

Over coffee and omelets, home fries and fresh fruit – Data and I share and Bernie insists on getting a picture of us – we begin to discuss how an interview would go.

"I'd want to start with just Zoe," Harb says. "She's the one who will _benefit_ from publicity, while we have to ensure that Data isn't harmed by it." Bernie is punctuating the reporter's words by nodding. It's clear they have a good working relationship.

"We'd talk about your childhood," he continues. "Mention your father, your uncle, your family's work in music and social justice. My research says your grandmother, Irene Harris, started the first farm collective on Centaurus, and that your family farm is still essentially self-sustaining?"

"I don't know the details, but, yeah, that was always her goal. I think she finally had a replicator put in, but it's mostly because heating water for single cups of tea isn't energy-efficient."

The dark-eyed man cracks a smile. "Not energy-efficient. I love that." He swallows some of his coffee, grimaces, and gestures for a server. "Would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, please? This one's gone cold." The server is happy to do so, and the reporter turns back to me. "Then we'll talk about your community theatre experiences on Centaurus, and on the _Enterprise,_ leading into your time with ACT last summer – that _is_ how Lachlan Meade found you, isn't it?"

"It is," I confirm.

"Then we bring Data on, after we mention that you've become a story in the tabloids. We talk about the beginning of your time together as teacher and student, we stress that your parents sanctioned your friendship, Zo' and that nothing improper ever happened, we let the two of you sit there together and hold hands, and let people see the connection you obviously share. We talk about Data being a decorated officer above reproach. We spin it not as love at first sight, but as a relationship that evolved organically."

"I assume you understand the irony of using that term?" Data asks drily, breaking into the conversation for the first time, though, of course, he has been following, and creating a perfect memory record of, every word.

"I understand that you don't have human emotions, sir," Harb says, erring on the side of formality despite their earlier agreement to be informal. "It's never been made clear to me whether or not you might have your own kind, and whether or not you do, it's obvious to me, just from watching the pair of you eat, that there is something very real, and very strong, between you and Zoe. Let me show the public just a taste of that, and you won't be a tabloid story. Zoe will be the Federation's sweetheart and you, sir… you'll be the dashing hero who complements her strengths and balances her weaknesses."

Data and I share a look. I don't know if he's experiencing trepidation, or merely perceiving mine, but I know we're both vacillating about doing the interview.

Bernie's voice cuts into our silent communion. "Look, kiddoes, it's a lot to take in. Neither of you expected your relationship to be in the media at all, and no one expected Zoe to be getting the attention she's getting. Data, hon, if you don't want your life this public, you can still make that call, and then people will whisper about 'that Harris girl's mysterious beau.' But people are stupid, sweetie, and when they hear android they think bad science fiction and killer robots. Showing them that you're not – that you're just this lovely man with golden skin – you have the chance to change the way people perceive ALL AI beings, not just you."

She pauses, shovels several bits of omelet into her red-lipsticked mouth, and then continues before anyone else has managed to form words. "Of course, this is the entertainment industry, so you could do nothing. For all I know, you'll be broken up before Zoe even finishes this tour, and no one would find that surprising, but… I don't think so. I don't think you two are having a fling. I think… my gut thinks… that you are one of those rare couples who finds each other and sticks with each other, and if that's true, establishing that now? It only makes both of you play better. The public is stupid, but they're also suckers for true love."

Not one person at our table seems a bit surprised when Data and I meet each other's eyes, hold a brief, silent conversation, and then answer in tandem. "We'll do it," I say, as he answers, "Very well, Bernie, we will do the interview."

We schedule it for Thursday afternoon, just before my call for the last preview performance of _Songs for a New World._

 **(=A=)**

 _ **Dear Shoney – Dating Advice by Shonev Ch'Shoques**_

 _Syndicated by_ _Alpha Quadrant Weekly_

 _Tuesday, 1 October, 2368_

 **The Actress and the Android – Interspecies Dating Gone Digital?**

Dear Shoney,

Waiting in line at the local replimat, I was shocked by a story from _The Probe –_ a story that, I am sure, has also caught your attention. It was a depiction of perversion that made me fear for the safety of all our children: Zoe Harris, a girl no older than my own daughter, was standing in open air, allowing herself to be… to be mauled by a machine!

This is disgusting! This is an atrocity that makes me fear for the future of all humanoid races! If a machine can be allowed to molest innocent children with no one blinking an eye, then what does that say about our society? How am I even to understand it?

I am writing this in the hope that you, as a respected journalist able to reach thousands upon thousands upon _thousands_ of people, will shed light on the horrible truth: Machines our [sic] taking control of our lives! Not one of our children or loved ones is likely to be spared in their mission to overtake us all!

Now, I don't want you to think I'm one of those scary people who belong to the _Keep Earth Human League_. I understand that humanoid life comes in many shapes and colors. But surely we can all agree that if nothing else, humanoid life is… _organic._

Kindest regards,  
P. Ashworth  
Friends of Humanity

(* * *)

Dear P. Ashworth (and Friends),

Thank you so much for writing.

While I certainly understand your concern for Ms. Harris's well-being, and I, myself, find it regretful that such a bright and talented young woman has chosen an unfeeling machine as her romantic partner, I would advise that you refrain from slandering people.

I think we can both agree that _The Probe_ is hardly the Federation's most… reliable… news source, though it is rather difficult to avoid. Therefore, you may have missed some salient facts:

First, Ms. Harris and Lt. Commander Data (the 'machine' in question) are in a consensual relationship, and I have it on good authority that the young actress is well aware of the potential consequences of her choice.

Second, while she is indeed young, Ms. Harris is over the legal age of consent, and it is my understanding that she has also been legally emancipated, a step she was required to take in order to accept her current position with the Idyllwild Theatre Troupe.

Finally, it may ease your mind to know that Lt. Commander Data is the only sentient android known to exist within the Federation, so while I do share your concern that machines are taking over our lives, I do not think you need be overly concerned with an army of androids in romantic pursuit of your daughters… or sons.

Instead, be concerned about the number of children who no longer lift so much as a drinking glass, because we have machines to do that for them. Be worried about the fact that hand-eye coordination is suffering throughout the Federation, because we rely on computers for so much of our educational and recreational experience that we no longer know the pleasure of coloring with wax sticks on sheets of pulped plant material, or spending time in the fresh air (or in the case of my homeworld, Andor, of the larger tunnels) throwing balls back and forth or hitting them against walls or over nets.

On a more personal note, I would remind you that this is a column on dating advice, and not a political platform.

I hope I was able to help you in some way.

Yours,

Shonev "Shoney" Ch'Shoques

Be sure to check out my column on Thursday when I answer the question: _My fiancé's co-spouses are demanding that I sign a pre-nup; what do I do?_

 **-30-**

As the flitter flies, Half Moon Bay is only a few minutes away from San Francisco, but it feels like a completely different world. It's a small coastal village, and the rough water and steep cliffs above the beaches only make it seem less like part of our normal world, and more like something from the past.

From the start, Mom and Ed have planned an intimate wedding. Data and I come the shortest distance, but we are the last of the family – blood-relatives anyway - to arrive, partly because of my schedule, and partly because we spent three days alternately packing my apartment (how could I have acquired so much _stuff_ in only four months?) and practicing the duet - a Celtic-inspired piece called _Galician Waltz –_ that we are presenting as a joint gift. I'm not in love with the borrowed instrument I've been using, but I hadn't expected to be playing again until I got home to the ship in December.

My mother comes out the side door of the rented house where the wedding is taking place – and where everyone is staying – and I drop my bag on the ground and run to meet her. Because she is my mother, and we think the same way a lot of the time, she also starts running, until we meet in a joyous crushing hug half way down the walkway.

"Oh, Zoificus, I've _missed_ you," my mother gushes. She smooths back my hair, kisses my forehead, and then holds me at arms' length. "Well," she says, after a long moment. "You look very grown up."

"I feel about a million years older than I did when I left," I confess. "But Data's been amazing these last few weeks, and when the travel part of tour starts on Monday, I think things will even out some." Or at least, I won't have time to care, I don't add.

"I'm so proud of you," my mother shares. Then she lifts her voice to call out, "Data, I'm taking my daughter inside. I'll send out minions to help you carry in luggage."

I hear my partner's acknowledgement as my mother wraps her arm around me, and we walk into the house hip to hip, smiling matching smiles. "We have minions?" I ask, as we ascend the three steps to the kitchen door.

"No, darling," my mother corrects. " _I_ have minions. You have the most wonderful mother in the world."

We are greeted by camera flash, and for a moment I'm convinced that some reporter has managed to wrangle their way into the house, but it's only a young boy who looks a lot like Ed.

"Remy, go get your brother and help Commander Data carry his and Zoe's things to their room, my mother says. "You can meet your soon-to-be step-sister after she's had a chance to get settled in." The boy favors me with a shy smile, but scampers off to do as he was asked.

"Are you getting along with the boys?" I ask.

"Well, Remy's a hard child to read, but I think he's on board with everything," Mom tells me. "And Michel says he's happy his father is happy. Now, come through the kitchen, and we'll sneak up the back stairs, so you won't have to see everyone right away, and we can have more mother-daughter time."

"I knew there was an ulterior motive," I accuse, teasing her. She knew I wasn't shy about spending time with people I already knew, and this was a family party, even if half the 'family' were technically close colleagues. "You really gave Data and me a room together?"

"Your grandmother said young love should not be parted," Mom said, leading me up the two flights of the spiral staircase. "And Deanna and Beverly reminded me that you already technically live together. Besides, you'll be separated again soon enough. I don't want to add to it."

 **(=A=)**

After four months of being surrounded by theatre people, it takes me a bit to find the rhythm of Starfleet people again, and there's the added - not tension, exactly – but heightened emotion, I guess, because it's a wedding, but also because Data and I had never really done much more than hold hands in public before I left the ship, but now we're sharing one of the love-seats in the great room of this houses. His arm is around me, and I've got my legs folded behind me and am resting against his body, half-listening to the cross-conversations.

I feel someone touch the shoulder that isn't touching Data, and I turn my head to see Counselor Troi. "Don't get up," she insists before I even think about doing so. "I just wanted to say hello and check in with you."

I reach for her hand with my free one, pressing hers and then letting go. "I'm good," I say, because in spite of all the hassle with the press over the last weeks, I really _am_. "It's good to see everyone."

"But a little bit weird?" she guesses, grinning.

I match her grin with my own, and add a soft, slightly rueful, chuckle. "More than a little." I shrug. "But it's not a bad sort of weird, just… an adjustment."

"For all of us, I think," she agrees. "Seeing you and Data so comfortable and so open in your relationship with each other is both heartwarming and jarring. It's new behavior for him."

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, Data says, "One moment," to Ed – the two have been discussing literature – and turns his head to tell Deanna. "It is an adjustment for all of us, but once the tabloids made our relationship a story, Zoe and I chose to 'steer into the wind.' We have nothing to hide."

"Data, that's wonderful!" the counselor's grin widens, and her eyes light up. "I'm glad to see you both so happy."

I expect him to contradict her, but he surprises us both, and merely says, "Thank you, Counselor," before turning back to his previous conversation."

 **(=A=)**

Friday is the day of the wedding rehearsal, and I remember (with Data's help) to wear the shoes I'll be wearing the next day, so I can break them in. They are strappy, and gold, and the heels are high enough that for a change Data and I are nearly at eye level to each other.

After the walk-through, Nonna and Papa pull me away from my boyfriend to gush over how much they like him. "And he's tall," Nonna says. "It's good that he's tall."

"Delia," Papa chides her affectionately. "It doesn't matter that Commander Data is tall. It matters that he cares for our granddaughter."

He's right of course, but I'm glad that they approve.

Remy, on the other hand, is not so sure what to make of Data, and even less sure what – if any – relationship to claim with either of us.

"You're going to be my stepsister," he announces as the wedding party and the _Enterprise_ contingent adjourn to a local restaurant for the rehearsal dinner. "Are you going to boss me around?"

"I don't know," I answer, teasing him the way I would have teased Charlie Simmons or the Potts boys. "Do you need bossing around?"

"Not usually."

"Mmm. Good to know."

"Anyway, you're not the boss of me."

"Well, that's a relief," I breeze. "I mean, I have enough to do without having to be the boss of anyone. Bossing people is way too time consuming. Besides, you're what? Twelve?"

"Almost thirteen." He stretches himself upward, as if too look taller.

"Well, almost thirteen-year-olds don't really need more people bossing them around, but sometimes… just sometimes… they could use allies. Friends, even. People who know all the tricks about cadging extra sodas, or where the good cookies are hidden, or how to pick the perfect wave for surfing."

"You surf?"

"Yep."

"Are you good."

I think about it. "I'm a little rusty," I say. "I haven't had a lot of time for surfing lately. But I definitely don't suck."

"I like to surf."

I might have learned that from his father, but I pretend it's the first time I'm hearing it. "Really? Have you ever done," I lower my voice, make it sound mysterious, " _night surfing_?"

"Dad said I can't go without an escort, and Michel doesn't like night surfing."

"Well, I heard that you and Michel will be on the _Enterprise_ for Christmas, and if that's true, I promise to take you night surfing on the holodeck if you do something for me?"

"What's that?"

"I don't want to be your stepsister. I hate that word. We're all one family. No steps or halves. No real Mom vs. step-mom. If you don't want to find your own name for my mother, just call her Emily, the way I call your father Ed." I hold out my hand to him, as if we've never met, "Hi. I'm Zoe Lauren Harris. I'll be your big sister tomorrow."

Remy grins at me. "Hi," he responds. "I'm Remy Gerard Benoit. I'll be your… _younger…_ brother tomorrow." We both grin, and then the boy asks the question I can tell he's been holding in for a day and a half. "Is Commander Data your boyfriend?"

"Yes," I say, "he is."

"Do I have to call him 'Commander?'"

I laugh. "You? No. Not at all. He's family. Think of him as…" I glance at Data, who is chatting with Will Riker and Captain Picard, but is close enough that I know he can hear us. "… as a sort of unofficial older brother."

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the man I love react to his newfound status with the merest up-quirk of the corner of his mouth.

 **(=A=)**

The staff at Mezza Luna have outdone themselves with the decorations for this wedding. Their event room is bright and airy, and has been decorated with flowers and candles in the colors Mom and Ed chose: peach, ivory, and sage.

Guests are mingling in the cliffside courtyard, where Data is ensuring that everyone is introduced to Elaine Benoit – Ed's mother, a graceful woman with a wicked sense of humor who has monopolized Captain Picard, I suspect, because she can speak her native French to him – and my grandparents.

Ed and his sons are having some quiet time in the groom's shed – the staff call it that – which really means they're playing video games to kill time.

My mother and I are in the bride's dressing room, just the two of us. Deanna and Beverly were with us until about five minutes ago, but she ushered them out, so we could have some mother-daughter time, but I've just glimpsed Data in his formal dress uniform and my heart feels like it's racing.

"You okay, kiddo?" my mother asks, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror where she's been putting the final touches on her hair and makeup.

"I'm okay it's just… does that squishy-fluttery feeling ever go away?"

"Squishy-fluttery feeling?"

"You know. The one that feels like Sychoran firedancers have taken up residence in your belly and are beating all their wings at once?"

"I'd have said butterflies... And no. Not if you're really in love with the person who causes the feeling in the first place."

"Butterflies are too tame for what I feel when I look at Data," I confess, and then I blush and wrinkle my nose. "Here I am making this all about me when I shouldn't be. This is supposed to be _your_ day, Mom."

My mother just shakes her head at me. "Oh, Zoificus." She sets her lipstick down on the dressing table, and pushes her chair backward. Rising, she moves toward the low couch under the open window, catching my hand as she passes, and drawing me with her. "Come sit with me."

"Mom?" But I join her, sitting at a diagonal on the plush couch so I can see her face.

My mother's expression is soft, reflective. "You're really not a little girl anymore," she muses. It's been a frequent refrain over this past year, but somehow, this time, she really means it. "Of course it's firedancers for you. Data is your soulmate. With Ed and I… it's different, sweetie. This is our second time around. Passion gets tempered a little when you're older."

"You are _not_ that old," I insist. "You're not even forty. Ed's barely into his fifties."

"I said old _er_ , not _old,_ " Mom points out. "Still, though, it's different. We've both been through this before. We love each other, and that love is strong, but we're also more cautious."

I peer at the woman with the more mature version of my face, the slightly darker hair. "You're not having second thoughts?" I feel obligated to ask.

"About marrying Ed? Not in the slightest. But I feel like I'm stepping away from you when you need me most, Zoe. You've gone through so much this last year, and I'm not sure I've been enough of a support." She pauses, and adds, "You've been leaning on Data, more than me, for some time now."

"He's my…" I don't want her to read too much into my choice of words, but it's the most accurate word to use. "He's my partner," I say, beginning afresh. "Aren't I supposed to be turning to him?"

"I suppose you are," she says, and we laugh together, and then the laughter turns to tears, but I'm not sure either of us knows why, or even what's going on, except that we're holding each other so tightly.

We stay that way for several minutes, and then my mother gives me a gentle shove. She stands up, adjusts her fascinator (she didn't want a veil), checks her lipstick, and marches toward the door. "I'm getting married today, daughter-of-mine. Want to come along? I hear there's gonna be a hell of a party, after."

 **(=A=)**

The ceremony is simple and short. Mom's dress, like mine, is vintage and tea-length, but it suits her, setting off her collar bone, and the simple gold chain that is her something new – provided by Ed just this morning.

Each of them speaks their own vows. A justice of the peace performs the legal part of the ceremony, but a friend of Mom's who is an Anglican priest leads a blessing and a prayer of praise before and after the legal requirements.

Data and I play our duet as the recessional.

The party is lighthearted. Ed dances with Nonna and his own mother and me. Mom dances with Papa and Michel and Remy. Ed steals me for a dance while Mom dances with me, and then I dance with my new brother, Michel while Data dances with Elaine.

My boyfriend returns to my side with an odd look on his pale-gold face. "Data?"

"Elaine has just informed me that my French accent is both 'abominable' and 'atrocious,'" he tells me. "Do you believe she is correct?"

"I believe," I tell him, inwardly amused that my android lover can sometimes need his feathers smoothed, so to speak, "that she is an old woman who is not the center of attention, and it is therefore her obligation to find fault in everything."

"Your grandmother did not behave in such a fashion."

"That's because she _is_ the center of my grandfather's attention."

"Ah."

"If you speak French to me while we dance, I promise not to pick on your accent," I coax, and Data takes the bait, leading me back to the dance floor.

" _Je te suis éternellement dévoué, ma Zoe_ ," Data whispers as we dance. We're not using any fancy footwork, only moving slowly to the music.

"Eternally, huh?" I ask.

"Eternally," he confirms, and bends his head to kiss me.

When we break apart, the song has ended, and the captain is asking if I would mind, terribly, dancing with an old man… to make him feel less left out. I laugh, and accept his self-deprecating offer, while Data leaves the floor for a bit. I see him during the next song, partnering Counselor Troi, but by then I'm dancing with Commander Riker, and when I look up _again_ , my boyfriend is dancing with Nonna.

Data, I note, is way more graceful.

And dancing with Will is like dancing with my father.

I feel the air change behind me, as Data returns to my side, just as they're wheeling the cake out to the center of the floor. He steps into my personal space and slips his arm around my waist, drawing me backwards against his body.

"It was sweet of you to dance with my grandmother," I tell him.

"She informed me that I should call her Nonna, and asked when we would be 'making things official,'" Data replies.

"Please tell me you didn't give her a date?"

"No," he affirms. "I would not do so when you and I have only just begun speaking of marriage as an eventual likelihood."

"Does it take any pressure off you," I wondered aloud, "when you pretty much know what my answer will be?"

But he doesn't answer, because Mom and Ed are making their ceremonial slice, and then Data is escorting me back to the head table.

 **(=A=)**

The party goes on, until, just before they are ready to disappear for the evening – they've rented a room at the hotel in town, even though they'll be back for a farewell brunch – Ed signals for silence. "My wife and I would love it if you stayed and enjoyed the food and drink until the venue closes at two in the morning," he says, beaming, "but first there is an important ritual she must complete. Emily?"

My mother steps to the center of the room. "Alright, I hope someone catches this thing," she says. She flashes me her special gushy-mom-look, and then turns her back to the assembled guests, holds her bouquet high over her head, and sends it sailing directly at me.

I am, of course, both delighted, and mortified in equal measures.

 **(=A=)**

 _ **Society Page**_

 _Dateline: San Francisco, Earth, 7 October 2368_

 _Claudia Singletary, reporting_

 **From Bridesmaid to Bride-to-Be?**

Edouard Benoit and Lt. Commander Emily Morelli Harris exchanged vows on Saturday in an intimate wedding at Mezza Luna in the coastal resort-town of Half Moon Bay. The bride wore a vintage tea-length dress in cream silk, and a fascinator made of heirloom Brussels lace. This was a second marriage for both parties.

Attending the groom were his two sons, Michel and Remy Benoit. Attending the bride was her daughter, Zoe Harris, who has gained some notoriety as this season's resident ingénue in the Idyllwild Theatre Troupe. Ms. Harris, who also chose to wear a vintage gown, albeit in peach and sage, caught the bouquet.

 _[A short, silent video of Zoe, bouquet-in-hand, laughing and then momentarily leaning her head against Data's chest airs here.]_

Ms. Harris was escorted to the wedding by Lt. Commander Data, the same officer who has been linked with her in the press for much of the summer. Could there be a wedding in this couple's future?

Among the other notable guests of the Benoits' (we are told that the bride _will_ be taking her new husband's last name) several members of the crew of Starfleet's flagship, the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ , including her commanding officer, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who hails from the same hometown as the groom.

The captain has never married.

 **-30-**

* * *

 **Notes:** The opening definition is modified from an entry at ArtopiumDOTcom. Harb Culkin is an homage to the character of Harb Tanzer who serves as morale officer on the original _Enterprise_ in the TOS novels. Special thanks to **Javanyet** and **Lacrimula Falsa** for writing the pieces from _The Probe_ and _Alpha Quadrant Weekly_ , respectively (and for not feeling slighted when I had to tweak them a little, to fit.). The Cliff House is a San Francisco institution. The food isn't always the best (though their brunches are fabulous) but the view is to die for. Half Moon Bay is my favorite village on the Northern California coast. Mezza Luna is a restaurant, but not a wedding venue. None of the tabloids mentioned are real. The song Data and Zoe played _is_ real, but I don't have a link for you. Sychoran firedancers are my own invention. I understand French when it's spoken to me, and I can get the gist of it when I'm reading it, but I don't actually speak the language (though I _was_ once complimented on my accent when I was vacationing in France – true story), so I used Google translate for Data's line to Zoe, which should be, "I am eternally devoted to you, my Zoe." (Update: thanks to **CptJaneway** who gave me a more idiomatic translation of the line.) Finally, I'm very sorry it's taken me so long to post this chapter. The universe has been challenging me rather a lot recently (although I did kind of get sidetracked by that Lore one-shot, "Nightly News" and the fluffy one-shot "Cake").


	5. Menuet I

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Paramount/CBS owns the canon stuff, and I own the rest. No androids were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Really._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Second, much of this chapter is letters again – unless otherwise noted, all are video recordings. Finally, even though Zoe is no longer on Earth, Terran-equivalent (or near-equivalent) dates have been provided, for ease of time-tracking)_**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **V. Menuet I**

 _A menuet is a social dance of French origin for two people, usually in time. The word was adapted from Italian "_ _minuetto"_ _and French "_ _menuet_ _," possibly from the French_ _menu_ _meaning slender, small, referring to the very small steps, or from the early 17th-century popular group dances called "_ _branle à mener_ _or_ _amener._ _"_

 **Stardate 45773.20**

 **(Wednesday, 9 October 2368, 11:52 PM, local time)**

 **Luna Colony**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

 **To: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Dear Data

Is it really only two days since I've seen you? It feels like less, and more, but somehow the fact that actual _tour_ part of tour has started means that I'm in the home stretch of my time away, and from here on in, everything is on a downhill trajectory. Yes, I'm completely mixing metaphors, but it's late, and I'm tired, and if I'm timing this correctly, it should arrive just as you get back to the _Enterprise_.

We've been here at Luna Colony since Tuesday morning, and we spent our first hours at the Armstrong Theatre Complex, checking to make sure all of our sets and costumes were in order. Simon has the dressing room next to mine, and he says this is SOP on tours, and that, as the tour progresses, we'll all get better and faster at the process. He also says that this is why all tours start barely any distance from home.

I know you won't laugh at this, but maybe you'll be able to appreciate the humor on an intellectual level: when Simon said 'home,' my first thought was that home was light years away, on a silvery-grey starship, and came with a cat. Then I realized he meant the _Company's_ home, not my home.

But still, I hadn't realized, until he said it, how much that word – home – has changed for me.

Sorry, I'm getting overly introspective, and this was supposed to be a breezy, newsy letter, assuring you that I'm fine. And the thing is… I really am fine. I mean, I'd prefer that we be in the same place, of course, but, I'm learning so much about myself – as a person and a performer – and these people I've been working with all treat me like an equal. I mean, I know they're all kind of protective of me, but… they're all kind of protective of each other, as well.

But I digress.

This morning, we participated in two theatrical rituals. One is the Moondance Ritual. I'm not sure when it started, but there's a tradition here, at this theatre, that the youngest member of whatever production is starting is welcomed into the Annals of the Armstrong. The theatre managers, representatives of Idyllwild, and our entire cast and crew gathered on stage, forming a circle around me – because, as you know – I'm the youngest member of this company by a couple of years, at least. I'm not entirely certain how old Mykel actually is – he won't say. Anyway, they draped this pale silver shawl… or maybe it's a stoll… around my shoulders, and handed me a wand – it's just a stick of plastic with a light-up crescent moon at the tip – and said I had to dance in the center of the circle for a minute, and then make a wish for this tour, and _then_ I had to make sure I touched everyone in the cast and crew with the wand before curtain.

I was sure they were just giving me a hard time, but after I did the dance, and made my wish – for safe travels and sold-out venues – they took me to the theatre office, and there was a file on the computer – the actual Annals – with the names of all the other performers who had been inducted into the Order of the Moondance.

So it would appear that I'm now officially part of theatre history, on the moon, anyway.

The second ritual was far more prosaic: cue-to-cue tech rehearsals of all four shows. Tech week is bad enough, but trying to force all of tech week into one day is just cruel.

But Lach took us all out to lunch, after. It's a little strange, without everyone's partners and spouses, but somehow it feels right that these first few tour stops should be just the company itself.

I've got one show tomorrow night, one on Friday, two on Saturday and Sunday off, and I'm exhausted from everything that happened today, but I'm excited, as well. I know there will be times when I'm going to break down and beg you to take leave and meet us at our next stop, but as much as I'll want to see you – as much as I _always_ want to see you – I also know that it's only eight weeks.

I guess maybe this _is_ just a bunch of etudes, after all, or a collection of them.

I love you.

Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45778.80**

 **(Saturday, 12 October 2368, 01:00 hours, ship's time)**

 **From: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

Dearest Zoe,

With your permission, I have shared the description of your induction into the Order of the Moondance with Dr. Crusher, who asked that I relay her congratulations. She theorized, and after some research I concur, that the ritual you experienced may have originally been inspired by a Broadway musical tradition called the Gypsy Robe ceremony, though that is usually an honor given to the chorus member, or 'gypsy,' with the greatest number of theatrical credits. Whether or not that is, in fact, the case, I am pleased that you were so honored, and offer my congratulations as well.

Here on the _Enterprise_ – here at _home_ – we are again involved in one of the mapping and charting missions you once referred to as 'the boring parts' although we are also ferrying a woman named Kamala who is due to be married to the chancellor of a planet called Valt Minor. It is an arranged marriage, and I must admit that I find the concept… disturbing.

There is little else to report, though your former classmates, Dana and Josh, have asked me to relay their greetings, and let you know they miss you. Rryl, also, sends his regards, as do Geordi, Ray, Lt. Barclay, Lt. Caldwell, Ensigns Gilbert and Lefler, Keiko, Guinan, both of the Bass brothers, and young Alexander. It would seem that you have acquired more friends on the _Enterprise_ than I realized, and I find that knowledge reassuring: it means that you have truly become part of the community here.

I believe I told you that Lt. Barclay was caring for Spot during the time I was on Earth. When I returned home, she refused to interact with me for twenty-seven-point-six-two hours, after which she became much more affectionate and desirous of physical contact than is typical. As well, as soon as I unpacked the belongings you sent home with me, she immediately began searching our quarters, as if to discover where you were. I could not comfort her, and had to resort to arranging your maroon sweater into a nest for her to nestle into.

It is clear that Spot misses you.

I miss you also.

When I suggested that you study the cello etudes, last January, and when I also used them as a metaphor, a shorthand, for the different ways we would interact aboard-ship in order to normalize our relationship, I did not realize how fitting both the task and the metaphor would be. I have included, with this letter, a file containing professional performances of the Popper etudes. I realize that your cello is here with me, and that you would not likely have time to practice even if your instrument was with you, but it is my hope that listening to these pieces will remind you that, just as repeated practice of a piece of music allows you to improve your understanding and execution of it, these weeks of being apart will get easier with… practice.

I do not mean to imply that either of us will grow to 'like' being apart, Zoe. Rather, I submit that we will both learn to tolerate being so, when it is necessary, and appreciate our time together, even more.

I am due on the bridge, so I will end this now.

As ever, I am -

Yours, Data.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45793.49**

 **(Thursday, 17 October 2368, 10:06 AM, local time)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

 **To: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** ** _U.S.S. Enterprise_**

Okay, lover-mine, this video-tag game is getting very old, very quickly. We haven't talked to each other in real time in _ten_ days, and while letters are better than nothing, and, it must be said, _your_ letters are getting better and better – I mean, no more bullet points, personal observations, sweet words, reassurances that being _separate_ doesn't make us actually _apart_ – it's almost like you've downloaded information on how to write love-letters.

Data… _did_ you download information on how to write love-letters?

Admittedly, part of the reason we haven't connected outside of recorded messages is that I was back on Earth for a couple of days. I know, I told you I'd be incommunicado, but I didn't tell you why. I didn't tell _anyone_ why, because I felt like I had to do this thing by myself, but I'm telling _you_ , now.

I was in Connecticut.

I was in Connecticut at Yale.

I had an interview and an overnight experience at _Yale_.

So, the interview was about what I expected. We talked about my academic record, and the fact that I was supposed to be doing this semester via correspondence with a Company-provided tutor, but that after my tutor couldn't teach my subjects, I arranged to take the semester off – thank you, by the way, for helping me with that, and for understanding why I had to.

We also talked about what it was like to be a student on a starship, and what it was like to be part of a touring company. She – the interviewer was a woman, Sophie Whitter, one of the deans, I think – asked me about my career goals, and I felt like I was floundering for a moment but finally, I found actual, understandable words and managed to string them together into coherent sentences.

I won't hear, officially, until mid-December, because that's when the early-decision applicants get told if they're admitted or not, but Sophie – she said to call her Sophie – said I'm a shoe-in for the interdisciplinary Theatre and Social Justice program, and then she hooked me up with one of this year's freshmen in the program, and I spent a day and a half shadowing her, attending classes, and even participated in her improv group's rehearsal.

Data, it was amazing. The energy, the air. And, okay, yes, Earth isn't exactly the most convenient place to spend four years, but at least I'll be in one place, it'll be easy for Dad to ship my flitter, and after your first semester you aren't required to live on campus, which is actually something I was concerned about.

Should I be concerned about that? I mean, it's not like I actually expect you to take leave every time I have a school break. That would be impractical. And unfair. But… even though we've talked about the future coming a few years from now, we've never really discussed the future that's coming in less than a year.

I guess that discussion can wait until I'm home.

Okay, deep breaths.

Positivity.

It's a little weird being back on Mars in the same hotel where I stayed with Dad over a year ago. I even have the same view… but the bed is too big, and there's no optical cable on the night stand and even though I have all the music files you sent – the etudes and the songs you sang and played for me – I miss just talking to you.

I know what you'll say, "Etudes, Zoe. It is all etudes, and we will be together again soon." But knowing what you'll say and being able to feel your breath on my skin when you say the words aren't the same thing.

Mom said she and Ed were stopping for a few days on Risa on their way back to the ship, and they're planning on seeing me perform, so, that's good. I want her to understand why I chose this, even though it's been hard.

And hey, we're half-way through October.

I love you, Data.

Always,

Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45805.61**

 **(Monday, 21 October 2368, 8:32 PM, local time)**

The subspace call seems to take forever to go through, but finally the comm-center on the _Enterprise_ answers and some ensign I don't know has checked my name against some list, and is routing my call to its intended recipient.

There is another brief delay and then the familiar gold features I long to see fill my vid screen. "Data! Please tell me you have time to talk and I'm not interrupting poker night or catching you on the way to the bridge?"

 _"It is good to see you, Zoe. Your call came at an opportune time. I am home for the evening."_

"Good," I say. "Is it completely pathetic if the first thing I tell you is that I miss you? I mean, I'm busy, and the nice thing about being on tour is that there's not as much press, even on Mars, as there is on Earth, and I love the energy of being on stage, but… I miss the shared rhythm of being in the same place as you. I miss going to sleep knowing that even if you're not in the bed, you're just outside the bedroom door, working." I feel my face twisting into a rueful grin. "I even miss Spot trying to turn my hair into knot-work."

 _"I, too, have been in a state that can only be described as 'off-kilter' since we were last together. My self-diagnostics find nothing 'wrong,' and yet, I sense that I will not be truly 'even-keeled' until you are home."_

From an android, this is quite a declaration, and I'm not sure how to respond. "Oh, Data…" I sit back in my chair, not sure what to say. Finally, I resort to the three words that mean everything when I say them to him: "I love you."

We are both quiet for a moment. If we were in the same room, we would be touching. I would move into the curve of his body and find comfort in the contact. He would nuzzle my hair. But we're not in the same room. He's on the _Enterprise_ somewhere between Earth and Valt Minor (only, you know, half a galaxy's worth of space) and I'm in a hotel room on Mars.

"So," I begin, changing not just the subject, but the whole tenor of our conversation, "you got my letter about Yale?"

 _"I did,"_ he confirms. _"Yale University is an excellent institution, and I believe you will do well there._ _I have never before seen you become so animated over 'school.'"_

" _If_ they accept me. It's not official yet. I'm refusing to even buy their sweatshirt until I know for sure. But… no matter where I go, Data, the same questions will have to be answered."

 _"I am aware,"_ his voice isn't any softer than usual, really, but there's a note of seriousness in it that makes the simple words so much heavier. _"I do not know how we will manage when you are at university, but I have faith that we will find a way. Detailed discussion before you are officially accepted would be premature, but – "_

I cut him off, still processing the first part of his statement. "You have _faith_ , Data? Aren't you supposed to be completely logical and rational? How does faith even come into play?"

 _"'Faith,'"_ he answers, in what I've come to think of as 'dictionary mode,' though it's also the manner of speaking he uses when he's attempting to make a point, _"'_ _confidence_ _or_ _trust_ _in_ _a_ _person_ _or_ _thing._ _' Zoe, I have confidence in our relationship, and I trust the connection we have. Do you not?"_

His eyes are wide when he asks me that question. Guileless, as ever, but I see something new in his expression, as well. He's expectant. He trusts _me_ to meet him half-way. _Trust myself. Trust Data. Trust us,_ the old mantra runs through my head.

"I do," I say. "I'm just feeling the distance between us, and I get scared. Maybe… maybe I'm just impatient for 'the future' to be 'now.'" As soon as I speak the words, I know they're true, and then I chuckle softly. "And yes, I know… I'm not entirely ready for that future yet. In novels even the best couples, the lovers who are true soulmates, separate when one goes away to school, only to reconnect years later."

 _"We are not a couple in a novel, Zoe."_ Data reminds me.

"No, we're not." A beat. "Are we soulmates?"

 _"I am uncertain whether I possess a soul."_ His answer is honest, reminding me again of who and what he is. _"However, if I do, then I believe that term would be accurate."_

"I think you have one," I tell him. "But if you don't, I'll gladly share mine." Then I laugh at the absurdity of the notion.

Again, we lapse into silence. I love that we can be quiet together, but it's a bit expensive to have communal silence over subspace. Data seems to perceive my shift in mood, though, and he changes our conversation again:

 _"I have studied your itinerary,"_ he begins _. "After you leave Mars next week, you will be headed to Risa for two weeks, correct?"_

I confirm his accuracy, even though we both know he's right. "Yes… why? You planning to sneak away for a couple of days in paradise?"

 _"I am afraid I cannot join you there. However, your transport is booked for a forty-eight-hour maintenance stop at Starbase Twenty-three en route to Risa, and if the current orders for the_ Enterprise _are not drastically altered, we will be there at roughly the same time."_

"Not for maintenance, though."

 _"No, it will be to take on and offload new personnel."_

"So there's a chance we'll get to see each other?"

 _"Precisely."_

"I'd love that. I know things change, and it may not happen, but I hope we can make it work."

 _"As do I, Zoe."_

An indicator lights up on my screen, informing me that my call has exceeded an hour in length. "I'm getting a timer warning," I tell my partner. "I'm afraid I have to go. It was good to actually _talk_ to you for a while."

 _"Real-time communication is infinitely preferable to recorded messages,"_ he agrees. _"I look forward to hearing of your next adventures."_ He takes a beat, and I see the subtle changes in his eyes, his face, that mean he's turned more of his focus to me. _"I am devoted to you,"_ he says.

I smile at his image on my screen. "I love you. Hug Spot for me, and send my regards to anyone who cares."

 _"I will do so."_

The signal drops.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45823.09**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 06:02 hours, ship's time)**

I am exhausted from travel and tired of living out of a suitcase, but I'm in the Starfleet VIP lounge at Starbase Twenty-three staring out the great glass windows at the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ in all her shimmery, silvery glory. This starbase is an orbital one, around a planet that offers little except the requisite amount of gravitic pull, and rather than using transporters, there are several umbilicals that run between station and ship.

I've seen the connecting bridges used before – pressurized tunnels through the nothingness of space – but this is the first time I've ever watched them actually make the connection, and it reminds me, a bit, of the erector sets and locking blocks that my cousins and I used to play with at Gran's farm.

Above the airlock doors, a red light goes out, and a green one lights up, and I hear the soft murmur of the techies confirming a seal and engaging the doors.

"Ma'am?" The duty officer, a young man with skin several shades darker than Geordi LaForge's and a smile that I'd probably have found heart-melting if I wasn't looking forward to seeing another man's dearer, if far subtler expression, comes over to me. His name, I know because he told me, is Lt. Richardson, but most people call him Richey. "Ma'am? The umbilical is locked and ready, and you are cleared for egress."

None of the duty officers in the Starfleet part of the base know quite what to make of me. My identi-chits tell them my name and age, and that I'm traveling with Idyllwild on a work visa, but they also tell them that I'm a VIP resident of the starship outside the window, and should be treated as such.

I didn't know dating the second officer rated me VIP treatment, but I'm not complaining, because while several ensigns and lieutenants are in the other lounge, the one where they'll be allowed across in groups of six.

I don't have luggage with me. My travel bags are on the ship Idyllwild uses for tour, and I have clothing waiting for me at home. I follow Richey to the umbilical doors, and he scans my ID one more time, and then the doors slide open and I walk across.

It's not a great distance. I arrive at the other side, where another duty officer is waiting, only this time it's someone I know. "Zoe," the curly-haired Irishman greets, "welcome home."

"It's only a visit – a very brief visit, Chief," I say. I offer my hand, but he pulls me into a bear-hug. "Keiko made me promise," he chuckles into my hair, and then he lets me go.

"So, I take it I have permission to come aboard?" I ask.

"Permission has been granted," he confirms, and I step fully onto the Enterprise, into one of the ingress/egress alcoves. "Commander Data has the bridge until zero-eight-hundred hours," O'Brien tells me. "He said he'll come directly home, but it might not be until nine because of senior staff."

I nod. I know that the senior officers typically meet with the captain at the start of alpha shift every day, to discuss the orders of the day and bring up any issues, and I also know that there are rarely any serious issues while the ship is docked anywhere.

"I don't have a comm-badge with me," I say. "Can you let him know I'm home and intact and that I'm going to crash until he's off-duty?"

"Will do."

I leave the alcove, enter the turbo-lift that's literally across the corridor and am standing outside the door to the quarters I share with Data in less than ten minutes. Without a comm-badge, I have to key in the door-code, and for a moment I'm terrified that it's been changed, but it's just me being tired and nervous.

I step inside, and am immediately attacked by an orange-and-white furry projectile. "Spot!" I catch the cat, cuddling her against my chest, and scratching her behind the ears. "Didja miss me, little monster?"

She frees a paw to bat at my hair, indicating neither yes, nor no.

"Well, it's too early to feed you, and I'm too tired to play, so you can come back to bed with me if you want, but that's the most you're getting from me." I carry Spot with me to the bedroom, then dump her unceremoniously on the bed. I tell the computer to close the door and dim the lights, as I'm kicking off my shoes, and then strip off everything else and crawl into bed, pulling Data's pillow into my arms.

 **(=A=)**

I wake up – barely – enough to notice when Data has come home. I expect him to wake me, but he doesn't. Instead, I hear the faint rustle of his uniform being unfastened, and feel the bed shift as he joins me. "Sleep," he tells me, because he knows both from the Chief's message and a brief subspace call the night before that I'm completely burnt out. "I am here."

 **(=A=)**

I wake up sometime later, lying on my side, facing away from Data. He's wrapped around me with one arm draped across my body, resting on my breast. I smile, even though I know he can't see my expression, and observe, "Waking up like this is nice."

His words are whispered through my hair, into my ear. "If you wish, we can 'make it nicer.'" He's quoting my own words, often replayed in my memory, from the first time I ever slept with him in this bed. _Our_ bed.

Except we didn't go any further than intimate cuddling, that night.

"I'd like that," I answer, and shift against him, tilting my pelvis slightly. It's another new position for me, but there's something so intimate about being cuddled against him, that I can't imagine turning over.

Data's fingers tweak and tease my nipples, first one breast then the other. He places a kiss on my shoulder, and then moves my hair aside so he can nip and suck at my neck, giving me the most delicious shivers. It's something I've responded to since the first time we began exploring physical intimacy, something Lore never managed to taint.

I hear myself whimper in response to my lover's tongue and teeth. When his hand – the one I'm not mostly on top of – returns to my body, it's not my breasts he goes for, instead, he trails his fingers down my side, then forward, over my abdomen where he flattens his palm and glides it across my skin.

I don't expect his hand to continue its downward trajectory, but it does, coming to a resting place over the curls of hair between my legs. "Data – " I breathe his name, but I really don't have any words.

"Allow me," he requests. "Will you?"

"Yesssss." My response lengthens to a sensuous hiss as his fingers gently probe until they find the place that will give me the most pleasure. Fingers. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. Data is relentless, not stopping until he's brought me all the way to orgasm.

He holds me as I tremble, stroking my body to calm the delightful aftershocks. When they've subsided he asks, in his smoothest voice, "Do you want more?"

"Yes," I answer, wriggling my bottom against his groin. "God, yes."

He doesn't make his usual joke, just insinuates one of his legs between mine, and enters me, filling me from behind in slow, teasing, movements until he's fully enveloped within me. His hand returns to the place between my legs, stimulating that pleasure center while we move together.

Maybe it's because we're in our own bed, or maybe it's because it's been nearly a month since we've been together, but somehow, everything feels more intense. Even Data's responses - the tiny shifts in his breathing, the way his hands move on my body, the quickening of his thrusts as he nears his own climax - seem somehow… _more_.

A part of me wonders if it's sacrilegious that the sticky warmth of our mutual completion feels something like a baptism.

At the very least it's a homecoming, albeit a temporary one.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45823.71**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 11:30 hours, ship's time)**

"Tell me you didn't cancel class today, just for me?" I ask Data as I join him in the main room of our quarters after I've showered and dressed.

"I did not cancel class," he responds. "I did ask Geordi to cover today's session, however."

"What happened to our agreement that unless we were both on vacation, we would stick to our normal routines?"

"You requested that I tell you I did not cancel class _just_ for you," comes his answer. "I cancelled class for _me_ , Zoe. You are only here until Wednesday morning, and the time we spent this morning was beneficial to my well-being as much as yours."

It's another one of those statements that would be completely casual, were he anyone else, but coming from Data, it takes on a whole other layer of meaning. "I have that much impact on your life?" I ask, not quite believing him, but not quite _dis_ believing, either.

"That much and more," he confirms.

I step behind the console, where he has been working on something, and wrap my arms around him from behind, then lean around to kiss him. The familiar, faintly cashew, taste of him makes me smile. "I love you. Thank you for this morning – for letting me sleep, and for the lovely way you woke me up."

"No, Zoe, thank _you_." His hands leave the console and reach up to cover mine where they're crossed against his chest, his thumbs moving to find the pulse-points on the under-sides of my wrists.

I laugh softly, knowing we could easily turn this into an endless loop. "Have it your way. What's on the agenda for today?"

"There are many people who wish to see you." Something in his tone alerts me that there are specific people he means. I wait, allowing him to tell me. "Captain Picard would like us to join him for tea at seventeen hundred hours. As well, Dana and Josh expressed an interest in having lunch with you in Ten-Forward today. However, I made it clear that your time was extremely limited and that I was hesitant to set a schedule for you."

"You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

Data turns his chair so that he's facing me. "Do you not want to spend time with your friends?"

"Mostly," I explain, "I want to just be here – be home. I wouldn't mind playing some music with you, if you have the time, and last I recall, it's your turn to choose the vid for video night, but… I don't know… Dana and I have been exchanging letters, so I know some of the gossip, but I feel like we're living in completely separate worlds. Everything in their lives is classes, who's dating who, and it just feels so high school." I take a beat. "Believe me, I appreciate the irony of that statement."

But Data surprises me with his response. "It is not as ironic as you believe."

"It isn't?"

"No, it is not. You have not been a student since May. As a member of the Idyllwild troupe, you have been treated as the young adult you are, and expected to act in accordance, and you have done so. I do not believe anyone would consider it unusual that you are uncomfortable with the idea of reverting to a younger state."

"But…"

"But…?"

I give him a look. "There's always a 'but,' Data."

"Perhaps not always."

" _Data_!" Sometimes I think he tries to exasperate me on purpose.

"Whether or not you resume classes when you return to the ship 'for good,' I believe it is important that you maintain good relations with your peers. They have been supportive of you, and of our relationship, and you should not turn away from that."

I stare at him for a long moment, then I burst out laughing. "I have _so_ missed this."

"Missed what, precisely?"

"Missed _you_ being annoyingly right all the time." I reach out to run my fingers through his hair, and he surprises me by capturing my waist and tugging me down to straddle his lap.

"I have missed this also. When we were together in San Francisco you were… subdued."

"In my defense, we were being slammed in the tabloids, and I was unsure how public you wanted our relationship to be, and… I hook my arm around his neck for stability. "… and I was a little overwhelmed by everything."

His arms are around my waist, holding me. "I am aware of that," he says, adding, "It is good to have you home." I open my mouth to make a joke, but decide against it, and just rest my head against his shoulder. He nuzzles my hair for a minute or so, and I smile. This is right. This is home. "May I tell Geordi to have your friends meet you in Ten-Forward?" he asks against my hair.

I groan good-naturedly. "Okay, fine. But after this tea thing, you are mine, mister."

"That will be acceptable, with one exception."

I lift my head. "Don't you dare tell me I'm being cast aside for poker night?"

"No," he answers. "However, I do have command of the bridge from zero six hundred hours to ten hundred hours, tomorrow morning."

"Can I come?" The request is an impulsive one, but oddly, I actually mean it.

"Zoe?" He seems almost surprised at the request.

"You've implied more than once that I might be allowed to observe you on duty. The ship is docked, so I figure there won't be much for me to get in the way of. I came home to spend time with you, and I'd really like to see you in command. I want a better understanding of what you do."

It's a new admission for me. I've always avoided instances where I might have to interact with Data while he's on duty, just as I always tended to avoid knowing much about my mother's work. Maybe it's the fact of our deepening relationship, or maybe it's just the time apart making me not want to miss a second of togetherness.

"You do realize that the scenario where an officer and his lover have sexual relations in the captain's chair only happens in questionable entertainment media?" He is teasing me.

I laugh. "I do realize that. I hope _you_ realize that doing it in the captain's chair is _so_ not one of my fantasies." I can tell he's about to ask me to elaborate, so I deflect him. "I know you'll be working. I'll bring a book in case I get bored, but if it's allowed, I'd really like to watch."

"It is allowed, and you would be welcome."

"Good." I lean back a little so I can kiss him. "My social planner informed me I'm due for a lunch date. How dressy is afternoon tea with the captain, please? I need to know how much time to allot for changing."

"If you are home by sixteen-thirty hours, you should have ample time to change," Data informs me. We share another kiss, and then I extricate myself from his grip, stand up, and start for the door.

"Zoe, wait." I turn back, expectantly. "Your comm-badge?" He reaches into a drawer and retrieves the gold jewelry, which I dutifully attach to my shirt, not even rolling my eyes all that much.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45823.82**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 12:30 hours, ship's time)**

"Zoe!" My best friend Dana exits one turbo-lift near Ten-Forward just after I exit another, and immediately captures me in an enthusiastic hug. "I've missed you so much. Letters are not enough."

"No, they're not," I agree, returning her embrace. "So, how are you? How's Josh? Is he coming?" Since we started traveling I haven't had a lot of time to write, and mail sometimes takes longer to reach me.

"He's already grabbed us a table. We tried to get Rryl to join us, but he's busy with Serena."

"Wait, I thought Rryl and his father went back to Akkalla. You've been holding out on me!"

"Oh, his Dad went back home but Rryl got permission to stay because Serena's pregnant." We enter the lounge, pausing our conversation until we arrive at the table where Josh is waiting. It's in the very center of the central window with a view of the starbase, and it's sort of fun seeing shuttles and shuttle-pods zipping here and there, as well as glimpsing the other ships that are docked. The _Enterprise_ dwarfs them all, of course.

Josh, being Josh, doesn't bother getting up. Instead, he raises his hand to describe a lazy wave. "'lo, Zoe. You look a lot hotter in the tabloids."

I'm caught between wanting to punch him and wanting to laugh, and I choose the latter only because the former would require too many explanations. "It's only 'til six hundred hours, on Wednesday," I say. "Then we're off to Risa for two weeks."

"Must be nice," Josh comments. "Jaunting around the quadrant while we're toiling away in classes."

"Math is _not_ the same without you, by the way," Dana adds. She clearly has more to say but she is interrupted by the arrival of a server, taking our food and drink orders. I request the dish that has become my usual at all the different places we've been on tour – chicken Caesar salad and utteberry iced tea. "Please tell me you're coming back to class in January."

"I… can't," I tell her. "It wouldn't be…" A year ago, this conversation would have made me blush. Today, I simply let myself remember everything Data and I have been talking about in the last year, and I smile. "It wouldn't be appropriate." I glance at Josh, "And you're not the only one toiling. I mean, I'm not in classes right now, but believe me it's not all fun and games."

"You mean you're not just acting and singing all day?" I can't tell if Dana is teasing me, or not, but her expression is open, not mocking.

"I guess I've been holding out on you, too." I spent a few minutes explaining what my schedule was like in San Francisco, and what it's like now. "I know it sounds really glamorous, but trust me, seeing yourself in the tabloids is all kinds of horrible… even if they do retouch the images to make you look hotter."

"You make it sound like _work_ ," Josh comments, wrinkling his nose.

Dana thwacks him in the head, the way only a girlfriend can. "It _is_ work. Have you gone all Pakled on us?"

"Parts of it are sort of fun," I say. "I mean, the actual performances – those are what we all live for. And the rest of the troupe is pretty cool. They look out for me. I mean, they look out for each other, but they _especially_ look out for me. But… it's lonely a lot of the time, too. When we're on the _Bernhardt –_ that's the company ship – we all have our own space, but it's small and cramped and really just meant for convenient transportation, and when we're on planets, we're going home to hotels every night." I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I wish it were all interesting and scandalous."

"Speaking of scandal…" Josh begins.

"I already told her," Dana says smugly.

"So, wait, that's for real? Serena's pregnant? And it's Rryl's baby? Did they miss the birth control lectures?"

"All we know is that she visited him for the summer, and came back to the ship knocked up," Josh informs me. "So Rryl is living with them until we all graduate, and once Serena has the baby, they'll all be going to Akkalla."

"That's a lot to cope with," I comment. "I mean… wow."

"You know, I had the same reaction when you told us about you and Data," Dana admits softly. "No words. Just… blown away."

As we finish our food, Josh starts talking about something they're doing in their history class, and from there they move on to literature, arguing as they always have, and always do, about the current reading assignment. "You're missing the point, Joshua. Anna didn't throw herself in front of the train to be selfish, she did it because it was the only thing in her life she could control."

"That's just stupid," Josh counters. "Suicide is an inherently selfish act. It doesn't solve anything. You just think it does because you buy into the romance."

I realize that the book in question is _Anna Karenina_ , which I'd read over the summer, but I have no idea of the discussion points, and as their argument escalates I feel like an interloper.

I'm about to take my leave of them, when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn to find myself staring into the bartender's enigmatic face. "Hi, Guinan. Are we being too loud?"

"Not at all. I just didn't want to miss the opportunity to say hello. If your friends can spare you, I'd love a few moments of your time."

Her presence has paused the conversation, anyway, and I can see Dana realizing that I haven't been talking in a while. "We should all head to our afternoon classes, anyway," the blonde girl says. "Zoe, I can't wait 'til you're back full time."

We all leave our chairs, and Dana and I exchange hugs again, but while my friends make their way toward the main doors, I follow the El-Aurian bartender toward an alcove in the opposite corner of the space. "Coffee?" she offers.

"Please? I've been living on espresso for a month, and I think I'm having withdrawal." We both know I'm joking. Mostly.

A look toward the bar, and a server scurries over to receive that request - because Guinan always seems to be asking you things rather than telling you – and barely a minute later, it seems, a French press and two cups are in front of us, along with milk and sugar.

It's only after I stir the caramel colored crystals into the aromatic brew that I ask, "So, did you really want me for something, or were you rescuing me?"

"Did you require rescuing?" The tone of her question makes me wonder if she's ever had formal training as a psychotherapist.

"Maybe a little," I confess. "I felt myself sort of… shrinking."

"Interesting." She gives me a look of naked appraisal, her dark-eyed gaze meeting mine. If she were a telepath, she'd be probing me right now, but she isn't… or at least, I don't think she is. I think she's just a lot older than she appears to be, and really good at reading people.

"Interesting?"

"You say you felt as though you were shrinking, but to me it seems as if you've grown while you were away."

"Have I?"

"Haven't you? You've been a working actor for several months, living on your own and sharing an apartment with your partner. You've navigated your first experience at being in the press with poise and grace."

"And a team of agents and managers and my director…."

"The fact that you had a team doesn't negate anything."

"Doesn't it?"

"Look around you, Zoe. Everyone here works with a team. Your mother does. I do. Even Data does."

"Okay, but that doesn't mean I've grown or changed."

"Doesn't it?" She echoes my earlier words back to me. "You didn't quit and come home, even when you were feeling helpless. Instead, you found a way to continue."

"Data mentioned that?"

"He required advice from Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher, as well." I hear her use the merest hint of his inflection.

I laugh softly. "The Triumvirate of Wisdom. Nice. I was wondering why I hadn't heard about it from my mother."

"Did you tell _her_ you wanted to end your contract?" Guinan, I notice, doesn't need to fiddle with her coffee spoon. She just meets your eyes directly and waits for a proper response.

"No. I… " Suddenly, I'm thinking about Mom's conversation with me at her wedding. "I went to Data, first. I knew he'd give me an honest answer, even if it wasn't necessarily the answer I wished for, and…"

"And while you left this ship with a child's connection to her mother, you've untied that knot. It happens to all of us, as we grow up. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. We release our parents from their roles as primary caregivers and form new attachments."

"Data and I aren't exactly new," I point out. "I mean… depending on when you count from we've been together either almost a year or over a year."

"And how long have you been your mother's daughter? Or your father's?"

I toy with the coffee cup in front of me. "So, you're saying it's all relative." It isn't a question.

"I'm saying you've grown up. You're still very young, of course, and you're still growing, but you've taken the biggest step into your adulthood. There's a maturity in you and a settling that wasn't there before."

"So, what? I've outgrown my friends?"

"Not entirely, but your relationship with them is in flux, even as your relationship with Data is stabilizing."

"You can tell that, without even seeing us together?"

"But I have. I've seen the two of you separately, and I've seen the interview the two of you did. The connection between you is stronger than it was."

I favor her with a soft smile. "It feels like that to me, too. As if all the pieces of my life are finally coming together. I know we're going to have to figure out how to sustain our relationship when I'm at college, but… I doubt it will be any worse than these last few months."

But she doesn't immediately agree with me. Instead, she does that thing where she listens to the universe and waits for it to answer. "It won't all be bliss," she warns – and though her tone is gentle, there's something ominous in her manner – "but you'll get through it, if you trust each other."

There's a subtle shift in her body language, and the alcove we're sitting in seems to brighten, as though I've just had a meeting with a fortune teller and now the veils of mystery have been lifted. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

"I should go," I say, rising from my chair with a sudden sense of urgency. "I have to be home by four to change for… another engagement… and there's someone I need to see, first." I wrinkle my nose in wry amusement. "Thank you for the conversation… and the rescue."

"Thank you for joining me," comes Guinan's response. "But you rescued yourself, Zoe."

I choose not to debate her on that point.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45824.24**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 16:07 hours, ship's time)**

The other stop I had to make delays my return to our quarters, but only by a few minutes. Does Data really think I only need half an hour to change? He's still at his console when I walk through the door, and when he looks up to greet me, I can see him register my pensive expression. "Hey," I greet. "Are you in the middle of anything you can't stop for a bit?"

"I am not," he answers. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no."

Data's graceful hands play over the controls of his console for a moment, and then the screens go dark, and he rises from his chair and asks, "Then, lunch did not go well?"

"It did," I say, "and it didn't." I continue on my original path, kicking off my shoes, and stripping off my shirt as I go.

"Please elaborate?" Data takes a seat on the edge of our bed.

I open the closet searching for an outfit I know I left here, and I have to laugh. "You rearranged my stuff. Did you miss me so much that you had to handle all of my clothes, or is this android OCD at work?" I find the outfit I was looking for – a purple V-neck sweater and a black skirt - and tap open one of the built-in drawers, pulling out a pair of tights.

"Organizing everything by color and sleeve length was intended to make it easier for you to locate preferred items, Zoe," comes his calm response. Do I detect a note of bemusement? "In any case, I do not believe the state of our closet is what has you… distressed. Please tell me what happened?"

"It not so much that anything happened as that I've… changed… I guess." I sit down next to him on the bed, take off the socks I'd been wearing all day, and begin rolling the black tights up my legs, enjoying the fact that he's watching me. "I'm not the same Zoe I was when I left, am I?"

It's not often that I can see Data actually _deciding_ how to respond to me, but for just a second, I can tell he's analyzing my facial expression and tone of voice, maybe even rating my level of distress. I don't even have time to be amused by it, before he wraps his arm around me, and draws me close. He places a kiss on the top of my head before he answers.

"You have changed," he says, "but you are still very much the Zoe you were when you left. You are more thoughtful, and more mature. You have learned to temper your 'snark' somewhat. These are all the natural consequences of your recent experiences."

I nod against his shoulder, and observe, "I'm also turning to you rather than my mother for support and advice. Mom mentioned it at her wedding."

"I am your partner," Data states. "Should I _not_ be your primary source of support, as you are for me?"

I laugh at that. "I made the same point to Mom." I snuggle with him for another minute or so, then squeeze him, and pull away so I can see his face. "Am I really?" I ask, "a source of support for _you_? I find that hard to believe."

"I believe that is something to be discussed at another time," Data points out. "It is sixteen thirty-three, Zoe."

I'm off the bed like a shot, pulling on my sweater and skirt, and then heading to the bathroom to touch up my makeup. "So, I went to see Ms. Phelps after I was done with lunch and Guinan." I call out.

"You had not mentioned speaking with Guinan."

"We had coffee, actually. Though she initially offered tea."

I see him process my statement, see the slight widening of his eyes when he perceives the touch of irony in my statement. "Ah."

"Ah?"

"I have found that conversations with Guinan often lead to introspection or contemplation, followed by a personal insight."

"Pretty much, yeah," I confirm. "She basically said what you did, except in her special Guinan-y way. She said I'd grown up and suggested I had to find my own path."

His voice comes from the bathroom doorway. "What path did you have in mind?"

"That's what I was talking with Ms. Phelps about."

"Is it not early to be setting your schedule for next semester?"

I run a brush through my hair as I answer, "It would be, yes, if that's what I'd been doing." I take a deep breath. "If I take the equivalency test, would I be required to leave the _Enterprise_ , or is there a way I could stay? Because, Data, the only reason I didn't sign up for it right then is that I want these next few months here, with you, very badly."

"I confess that I function at a greater level of efficiency when you are home, Zoe," he responds. "If you do not wish to return to a typical school schedule, I am certain an alternate education plan could be designed and I would be happy to assist wi – "

"No, you don't understand," I cut him off.

"You are correct. I do not understand," he replies.

"I need to be done with high school," I explain, surveying myself in the mirrored section of the closet door. "Do I look okay? Never mind. I need to be done with it, not just for me, but for _us_."

"Your status as a student does not affect our relationship," Data observed.

"But it _does_. I can't magically age myself five years so I'm more acceptable, but believe me, I would if I could. People here on the ship know you, and generally support us as a couple. My friends and family accept our relationship for the same reason. But you saw what they said about us in the press, in the tabloids. I turn eighteen in January, and that will help. I'm on tour now, so people who read those things are starting to see me as a working actor, and not a school girl, which also helps. But if I revert…. If I'm back in high school again… I can't do it, Data. I've grown beyond it."

A year ago – six months ago – my statement would have bordered on hysterical. The proof that Mom, Guinan, and the man currently favoring me with the full force of his attention are all correct about me having changed, or at least matured a little, is that my tumble of words comes out in fairly even, non-histrionic tones.

The proof that Data, too, has changed a bit in the last year or so is equally evident in the way he reaches for my hand. "Then we will find an alternate plan. What did Ms. Phelps suggest?"

"She said to ask you, actually," I grin. "More specifically, she suggested you might help me write a proposal for a work-study plan or an internship with someone whose duties dovetail with my interests. Failing that, she suggested I might use the time to take correspondence classes, and knock out some general education credits before I get to college."

"All very wise ideas," he comments. Active listening, android-style. Though, he seems to understand that I'm not through talking, because he doesn't comment further.

"The only other option would be not to come back," I add softly. "Bernie is already fielding offers from people who want me to be in their productions. Some of them aren't even asking for an audition first, but Data… we've been talking about a future together that's less and less vague… and if that future is going to happen – if we're truly planning to get married in a few years – then between the career you have and the one I want, we'll face enough separations without having to make them happen."

Data captures my other hand, so that we are facing each other. I look up, meeting his warm gold eyes. "I believe that our course is clear, then, Zoe. We must work together to determine what type of internship would be best suited to both your needs and those of the ship, and then we must appeal to Captain Picard to 'make it so.'"

I can tell he is quoting someone, but I'm not certain who. The captain, maybe? It seems like the kind of phrase he'd use. I have no further time to ponder it, though, because my partner presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. Then he walks back to the closet door I left slightly ajar and adjusts it so that it's completely closed.

I shake my head in affectionate amusement. "Android OCD," I murmur. "Definitely." Louder, I call out, "Come along, Basil, darling. Tea's awaiting." The look on his face is so priceless that I have to steal another kiss before we head toward the bridge, and Captain Picard's ready room.

 **~ To be Continued ~**

* * *

 **Notes:** My intent was to write only one menuet chapter, but menuets typically come in pairs, and the only other option would be a chapter that was roughly 20,000 words, which seems too long even for me! So, I've split it at a natural breaking point, and the other half is nearly done. Episode references: "The Perfect Mate." Definition of "faith" comes from Dictionary DOT 's Moondance ritual is indeed based on the Gypsy robe ceremony. Special thanks to **Lacrimula Falsa, ReLive4Love,** and **Selene.t** for assistance and support. Note: Chapter has been revised because it was a bit too flat, and too clinical.


	6. Menuet II

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Paramount/CBS owns the canon stuff, and I own the rest. No androids were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Really._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Second, much of this chapter is letters again – unless otherwise noted, all are video recordings. Finally, even though Zoe is no longer on Earth, Terran-equivalent (or near-equivalent) dates have been provided, for ease of time-tracking)_**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **VI. Menuet II**

 _A menuet is a_ _slow, graceful dance in ¾ time that started in the 1700's in the French court. Gradually, the minuet began to be used as a musical form, especially as the third movement of symphonies._

 **Stardate 45824.34**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 17:00 hours, ship's time)**

"Come along, Basil, darling. Tea's awaiting." Zoe's amused affection colors her words, but his attempt to formulate a reply is lost in the press of her lips against his.

From the moment she had asked him _Data, are we a couple_? on that shuttle trip to Centaurus nearly a year before (ten months, eight days, seven hours, sixteen minutes, ten seconds), and he had affirmed the accuracy of that label, intimate contact has become their default behavior whenever they are alone, and in a private space. Since the first of the articles about them – and the images of their shared kiss at Starfleet arrivals – had 'gone live' in early September, their public behavior has been more intimate, as well, though never to a point beyond the limits of propriety and decorum.

He meets her kiss, noting the comparative warmth of her lips She has remarked that his skin feels cool to her, and that she finds the difference in their typical body temperatures soothing. He perceives her warmer basal temperature as something that is both inherently _hers_ but also both familiar and comfortable. Her kisses – their kisses – are the frequent, physical reminders of the connection they share, and the way she seems to – in her vernacular – 'get him.'

As well, Data finds a certain sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that if he teases her lips with his tongue, she will part them, and invite his entry, and that as he does so, her pulse will increase slightly, and her breathing will shallow just enough for him to detect. He considers these responses to belong as much to him, as the one who creates them, as to her.

Just outside the door to their quarters, Data offers Zoe his arm, and is pleased when she loops her own through it. Thus linked, they make their way to the nearest bank of turbo-lifts, and up to the bridge.

Captain Picard is expecting them, and rises from his chair to greet them. Also present, also standing is another captain of his acquaintance. "Commander Data, I'm sure you remember Captain Louvois," Picard says, though the android requires no reminder.

"Of course, sir. Captain Louvois, it is good to see you again." Their handshake is both professional and perfunctory.

"And you as well, Data," the tall brunette woman responds.

"Phillipa," Picard continues, "please meet Zoe Harris. Zoe, this is Captain Phillipa Louvois; she's the senior JAG officer for this sector."

Louvois extends a hand toward Zoe, who meets the gesture with the same apparent ease he has seen her demonstrate when meeting anyone from theatre angels (which he understands to be significant donors) to admirals. His girlfriend looks directly into the older woman's eyes, and speaks in clear, measured tones that belie the nervousness he is certain she must be experiencing. "I've read about you," she says. "You represented Lt. Commander Juarez of the _Yamato_ , in the civil case against him the year the ship was lost."

The Juarez case, Data is aware, was of particular interest to Zoe, as it involved the _Yamato_ security officer's relationship with a young woman of his girlfriend's approximate age. In that instance, the girl's parents had objected, but no wrong-doing had been found, as she was technically of age.

Louvois's face, initially bright and receptive, darkens momentarily at the mention of the Juarez case. "He won his case, but the ship was lost so soon after. How did you know about that?"

"One of my friends knew his girlfriend," Zoe explains, though the does not elaborate beyond that. "I'm sorry, if it's a painful memory, Captain."

But the JAG officer does not appear to be offended. Indeed, she responds favorably. "I'm impressed that you looked up the case," she said. "I expect you know that I also ruled in the case of Commander Data's personhood, but that's old news." Her expression brightens once more. "I had the privilege of seeing you perform," she shares. "I was in the audience, closing night at Luna Colony, and of course I've seen the articles about you – about both of you –" she changes her gaze to include Data in that moment. "Nasty business; I hate tabloids. It's a pleasure to meet you in person, though, Zoe, especially as Jean-Luc has been singing your praises, but before we go any further, please call me Phillipa. You're not Starfleet."

"No." Zoe's tone is the one Data recognizes as wry. "No, I'm really not. Thank you, Phillipa."

The two red-clad officers resume their seats, each in one of the side chairs near Captain Picard's low coffee table, while he and Zoe settle onto the couch. He touches her back to guide and steady her as she skirts the table, and notices that her pulse is still jumping. He is caught between concern for his girlfriend's nervousness and a flash of gratification: his perception that she _is_ nervous, was correct.

Perhaps he should have warned her that this tea had never been intended solely as a social event.

Tea is poured – the captain's preferred Earl Grey – and light snacks are offered as well: small sandwiches, shortbread cookies, fruit, and cheese. The conversation is barely more than the typical 'talking about the weather,' that Data notices is the norm when humanoids meet other humanoids and are attempting to appear to be reasonably relaxed with each other.

It is only after Zoe has set down her plate that Captain Louvois asks the younger woman, "Zoe, Jean-Luc tells me you've applied to Yale, early decision. Have you already chosen a course of study, or will you be entering with an undeclared major, in the fall?"

Data notices, though he is certain no one else does, that Zoe's posture improves slightly – she is sitting up with her spine approximately one-point-zero-two percent more vertical than it was before.

"I've applied to an interdisciplinary program," Data's partner explains, a too-faint-for-human-ears quaver under her voice for the first few words. "It's a joint offering from the Political Science and Performing Arts departments. Theatre and Social Justice. It's essentially a double major, but you can tweak the courses to be more theatre or more poli-sci. I think some students are even doing pre-law within this program."

"Pre-law?" Data notices the uplifted eyebrows and change of focus that signal increased interest from the JAG officer, as she continues her chat with Zoe. "Are you thinking of going that route?"

"I think it's a little too early for me to decide that," the younger woman answers. "I'm not being flippant. I'm just not sure. For most of my life I thought I was going to follow in my father's footsteps and go to The Martian."

"Your father is…?"

It is clear to Data that Louvois is well aware of the identity of Zoe's paternal parent, and, he can tell, equally apparent to Zoe herself.

"Maestro Zachary Harris," she answers anyway, refraining, he notes, from uttering the words in the exaggeratedly pompous tone she often employs when referring to the conductor. She adds, "My first instrument is cello, though everyone in the family plays piano, as well. And Data's promised me guitar lessons, but hasn't managed to deliver just yet." This last is both affectionate and teasing, and, he realizes, meant to nudge him into a more active role in the conversation.

"I had the privilege of working with Zoe as she rehearsed for her Martian Academy audition," Data adds, recognizing his partner's need for someone else to talk, while she gathers herself. "The school offered her a place, but she chose to decline."

Again, Data observes Captain Louvois, and, to a lesser degree, Captain Picard, sharpening their focus on Zoe.

"Why turn down a place at the Federation's most prestigious conservatory?" the older woman asks.

"Because I don't want to be an idiot," Zoe responds, a touch of her usual snark in the words. "But also because…" she hesitates, not because she is still nervous – her pulse has long since settled into its typical resting rate – but because, Data suspects, she wants to use the correct phrasing. He _also_ increases his focus on her; curious about her answer.

"… because being here, on this ship, surrounded by people who are the best in their fields, whether they're officers or civilians… it changes you. Or at least, it changed _me_. I mean, yes, my mother dragged me here kicking and screaming, but once I had a chance to deal with everything on my own terms, and especially once I was in Data's class, I was exposed to a lot of ideas and information that most people never get to experience."

She continues, "We've had dignitaries from foreign cultures visit our classes, and we've had people like Ambassador Uhura inviting us to eat lunch with them. On a more personal note, my grandmother, Irene Harris, was a sociologist and kind of an activist for an open Federation, in her day. She was a guest lecturer at Starfleet Academy when my parents met, actually, teaching a course in Folk Music as Culture and Conscious – and I want to honor that, but, it's not just living up to some family legacy. I've spent the better part of the last three years surrounded by people who are changing the galaxy, either by discovering new parts of it, or defending the parts that already exist, and I want to be a force for change _also_. I just don't want to do it by putting on a uniform and pinning pips onto my collar."

Zoe relaxes back into her more casual posture when she has finished her statement, moving slightly closer to him. Data recognizes that she is seeking support, and he moves his hand to cover hers where it is gripping the front edge of the seat cushion. A few seconds of contact, and she releases her grip, but her hand remains beneath his own.

Captain Louvois chuckles softly, shaking her head, in what appears to be bemused appreciation rather than mockery. Addressing the captain of the _Enterprise_ , she says, "Jean-Luc, you told me she was special, but you didn't tell me how much."

"Zoe and I have become friends, of a sort," the older officer shares. "I found her mistreating a heavy bag last spring, and began coaching her, as much to ensure that she didn't injure herself as to preserve the gym equipment."

There is a glint in Picard's eye that Data has always understood to be mischievous. He notices that Zoe meets the bald man's gaze steadily, then allows a grin to take over her face. "Captain Picard has been extremely generous with his time," she says. "And thanks to him, I've developed a pretty impressive right hook."

Louvois's eyebrows lift again. "Boxing, really? Jean-Luc, I'd never have imagined," she teases. "And Zoe, you're not exactly built like a prize fighter."

His girlfriend laughs. "No, I'm definitely not. But there's something really cathartic about whaling on a punching bag for twenty or thirty minutes."

"I'll have to take your word for it," the older woman offers dryly. She is silent for a beat or two, refilling her tea, and offering more to everyone. Zoe and Captain Picard both accept; Data declines.

"I think it's time we tell Zoe why you're really here," Picard suggests, in the way that means it is _not_ a mere suggestion. Data has never heard him use that tack with anyone of equal rank before, but then, he is aware that his captain and Captain Louvois have a shared history.

"Sir, you're making it seem like something nefarious is going on," Zoe comments.

Picard's laughter comes in a short bark. "Nothing quite so compelling, I'm afraid."

It is in that moment that the android realizes Zoe and his captain have formed a relationship of their own, one that is quite separate from his relationship with either of them. It is almost as if, in becoming Data's lover, Zoe has also shifted to becoming Picard's protégé, though not in an official, or even demonstrable, capacity. Rather, they have body language that speaks of familiarity, and, he determines after several seconds more observation, the older man appears to harbor paternal feelings for the young woman.

The three from the _Enterprise_ listen as Captain Louvois outlines her plan. "I'm working with a consortium of post-secondary schools, including Starfleet Academy, to create a program for high school seniors who live on starships and starbases. While most students like you, Zoe, excel academically, the community service electives that most institutions like to see are hard to come by out in space."

"Zoe and some of the other students aboard the _Enterprise_ have participated in away missions from time to time." Data offers the information simply as a statement of fact. "However, those opportunities are quite rare."

"A lot of us are doing independent study projects under the supervision of different officers," Zoe adds. "I spent last year working in the aquatics lab, participating in the study of captive grace sharks, for example. I needed a lab science, or it never would have occurred to me. Pretty much the only _other_ options we have are helping in the arboretum, or volunteering in the child care center, and those are great, if you actually _enjoy_ gardening or small children, but…"

"But they're not doing much to further your education?" Louvois asks. She waits for Zoe's confirming headshake then continues, asking, "What if you could intern with the JAG rep on the ship, or assist the protocol officer? What if you were able to serve as a junior ambassador, representing your ship to students like yourself, from new or different worlds?" But this time she doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, the woman who nearly ended Data's career (and ultimately saved both his career and his personhood) outlines her plan for onboard internships, pairing students with mentors who share their interests. "Working in your arts interests poses a challenge, however," the lean brunette adds, at the end of her presentation.

"No, sir, it does not."

"Data?" the JAG officer asks, just as Picard observes:

"Data, you've been uncharacteristically quiet today; do you have some insight we've missed?"

"I wished to allow Zoe to 'hold the spotlight,' sir." The statement is addressed to _his_ captain, but he includes Louvois when he continues. "I believe Zoe's interest in music and theatre would be an asset in any of the scenarios you mentioned. Much of our knowledge about any culture is gleaned from its entertainment and its artistic endeavors, and I do not believe there is anyone in this room who has not witnessed the way music can help bridge a gulf between two people or two Peoples."

"Well said, Mr. Data," Picard's comment is warm with approval. "Zoe?" He turns his attention to the young woman seated next to Data on the couch. "May we know your thoughts?"

"I'm a little overwhelmed, sir. And little bit confused, wondering when exactly you and Data developed telepathy." Her comment earns her the appreciative smile she clearly meant to invoke, but she holds her tongue for half a breath before explaining to both captains, "He and I were having a discussion just before we came here, about whether or not I'd be allowed to remain on the ship through the next semester if I decide to take the equivalency test and not return to formal classes."

"Are you having trouble with school, Zoe?" Louvois's question is laced with genuine concern.

"No… except that having worked in the 'real world' for a good chunk of the year, I feel like a normal high school schedule would be going backwards. Well, that's not precisely true. I was supposed to do correspondence courses from tour, but the tutor provided by Idyllwild couldn't teach my subjects, and since I have enough credits to graduate today, if I wanted to, I've been 'on leave' for this semester. Ms. Phelps – she's the guidance counselor and program director for the high school here – gave me a few options for an alternative to a regular schedule, including the possibility of an internship, actually - but we've barely begun discussing it, and _whatever_ I end up doing, I need to be sure that it'd doesn't adversely affect my application to Yale."

"But you _are_ interested?" the older woman asks the question, then waits quietly for a response.

Data decides he must speak. "Zoe," he begins, using a tone of voice he has found to be persuasive seventy-nine-point-six-three-seven percent of the time, "the program Captain Louvois is suggesting would solve your dilemma."

She favors him with a look that is equal measures of affection, amusement, and annoyance. "Yes, thank you," she tells him. Then she turns back to the JAG officer. "I'm definitely interested, it just feels a little too perfect."

Louvois's laughter is not the sharp bark that Captain Picard's was. Instead, it is a throaty sound. "I promise, Zoe, there's nothing perfect about it; you'll be our guinea pig, in a sense, but I'm certain both Ms. Phelps and the admissions office at Yale will approve."

Zoe is quiet for seventeen-point-five-six-nine seconds. Just as Data is beginning to consider prompting her, she glances at him and offers a smile. Then she turns back to Captain Louvois. "I'd love to be part of your program, Phillipa, but, I have one other concern, and that's… it's essential that I don't report to Data in any way. While we'd managed to keep things mostly discreet until I left the ship, the tabloids you mentioned earlier have made our relationship incredibly public. I don't want anyone thinking I'm only getting this opportunity because of that, and I also…" Her professionalism cracks at that point, as she addresses him, instead of the senior officers. "I don't want you to supervise me. I know you're head of ops; I understand the hierarchy. But as amazing as this all sounds – and it's pretty amazing – I don't want to do anything that puts us – puts _you –_ in a precarious position."

Data expects Captain Louvois to respond, but it is Captain Picard who speaks, his tone serious, but not cold. "Zoe, it's admirable that you are so protective of Commander Data. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that he is equally protective of you."

"No, sir. I know he is."

"Then please remember that as commander of this ship, I am responsible for all who live and work aboard her, and am equally protective of you both. No impropriety will occur; I will not allow it."

Data watches the woman he is devoted to and the officer he most respects as their gazes lock. He cannot explain _how_ , but he is certain some silent communication passes between them.

"Yes, sir. Thank you," comes Zoe's response, and then she turns back to Louvois. "I think you just acquired a guinea pig," she says, grinning.

Tea ends shortly (twelve minutes, four-point-eight-zero-two seconds) later, with Data and Zoe being firmly, but gently, dismissed to continue the rest of their evening, though the captain calls for them to wait just as they are exiting the room.

"Sir?" Data asks, turning to face his commanding officer.

"You're scheduled to have the bridge tomorrow morning?" the question is meant to be polite. Both men are aware of the duty roster.

"Yes, sir. Zoe has finally decided to accept the invitation to observe."

"Observe? When we're docked? Zoe, would you mind postponing your observation until you're back aboard full-time?"

His girlfriend looks at him, shrugs, and then answers the question. "I just thought things would be quiet and I wouldn't be in the way, sir."

"That's a valid point. Here is another: you're unlikely to learn anything of note. Data, I think Lt. Wood can handle a four-hour command watch. Spend the time with Zoe." The captain's gruff demeanor softens to one with obvious affection: "That is an order, Commander."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He activates the door and guides Zoe through it, and back up the ramp to the turbo-lifts.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45824.63**

 **(Monday, 28 October 2368, 19:33 hours, ship's time)**

Back in their quarters, Data feeds Spot her dinner while Zoe disappears into the bathroom to remove her makeup and most of her clothing.

"The problem with five o'clock tea," she grumbles good-naturedly from where she is lying, sprawled face-down, across their bed, "is that it ruins plans for the rest of the evening. I ate enough that I won't be hungry for _hours_ , so there's no need to go to dinner, but it's too early to settle in for a video." She had removed her 'tea outfit' upon entering their quarters, and is currently clad only in her underwear – a pair of purple 'panties' with lace trim.

Zoe, Data reflects, has an apparently unending supply of underwear, in more variations than he had ever considered might exist. Those she is currently wearing had been paired with a matching brassiere, also trimmed in lace, but it is currently hanging on the towel bar in the bathroom.

At first, he assumes that Zoe's lack of attire is meant to be a precursor to sexual intimacy, but he quickly realizes that she was simply been uncomfortable in layers of clothing, and that her near-nudity is a sort of release for her. It is also, he believes, a non-verbal comment on their relationship. She is comfortable with him. She truly sees him as family.

"I do not believe it is 'too early,'" Data counters, while still analyzing the different ways nakedness can exist within the context of a romantic relationship. "However, there are a number of other activities we could pursue. We have not danced since your mother's wedding, and you had expressed interest in improving our tango. Or, we could select a different holodeck program, if you wish."

"Can we just be still for a while?" she asks, rolling over onto her back. "Can we just take a few minutes – hours even – to just _be_ together? I'm a little peopled-out and it's making me grumpy, but if we can just be still, my head and my heart can catch up to each other, and then I'll be able to tell you what – if anything – I want to do tonight. I mean… serious couch time while we watch a video may not seem exciting, but…"

"But it is what we always come back to," he supplies. "It is one of the things we do together that has no deeper meaning than enjoying one another's company."

"Yes, exactly. I mean, I feel the same way when you're at your console working and I'm reading or whatever. I like… I like that I can be quiet with you."

Data has heard Zoe utter similar statements before, but having experienced her life with Idyllwild, if only for a month, he understands better, now, what it means to her to _not_ have to present a social face. He also finds the time they spend 'just being' to be somewhat restful, in the sense that he is not constantly error-correcting his social behavior.

His girlfriend's request for breathing time, however, has him puzzled. Does she mean he is not to speak to her, or does she merely require 'downtime' in which to process an eventful day?

It does not surprise him when Zoe senses his uncertainty. "I didn't mean for you to be silent," she says, sitting up. "I'm just… We only have until Wednesday morning, and then I'm away again for another six weeks, and a lot's happened today. God, has it all been just today? Was I completely naïve to believe I could have two days of relative normalcy?"

His girlfriend yawns, and then blushes faintly, evidently embarrassed about being fatigued.

"You are many things, Zoe," Data says in an assuring tone, "but I do not believe 'naïve' is one of them. However, it would appear that what you most require right now is rest. I have an analysis of some recent anomalous energy readings that I would like to complete. If you would like to nap for a while, I will continue my work, and we can have our 'video night' when you wake."

The young woman flashes him a grateful, if tired, smile. "Is this what our life will be?" she asks, more musing than expecting an answer, it seems. "Coming home to quiet co-existence?"

"It is what _part_ of our life will be," Data responds. "Do you object?"

She shakes her head. "Not in the slightest. If I'm not up by midnight, wake me?"

He promises to do so, and watches as she pulls back the covers and crawls into their bed. Almost immediately, Spot appears, as if from nowhere, to take up residence on his pillow. "It would appear that our cat prefers your company to mine."

"Uh-uh," Zoe protests. "You are _not_ pawning off half a cat on me. Spot was, and is, and always will be _yours_. She's just here because she heard the siren call of loose hair, and hasn't had anything to knit in a long time." There is a beat, and then she adds. "I've been meaning to tell you, I'm really a dog person. Could you leave the door open part way? I like to hear you at work. It… it means home to me."

"Of course." He bends to kiss her forehead, not wishing to start anything that his lover is too tired to finish, but she surprises him by moving just enough so that lips meet lips. "Zoe…?"

"Your kisses are addictive, Data. I don't want to miss a single one." She yawns again, and rolls onto her side, watching him as he exits the bedroom, extinguishing the lights on his way.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45825.14**

 **(Tuesday, 29 October 2368, 00:03 hours, ship's time)**

"Remind me again why I complain about replicator food?" Zoe asks him from her corner of their couch.

Zoe's nap had lasted until twenty-three hundred hours, at which point she'd left their bed to use the bathroom, and made a subspace call to her father, just checking in with him to confirm that she was safe, well, and happy. After _that_ she had dressed in one of his oldest uniform t-shirts and a pair of her own sweat-pants, and collapsed onto the couch, announcing that she was ready for food and videos, reminding him again that it was his turn to make the selection.

"Because I haven't had shawarma this perfect in _ages_ ," Zoe continues. She had ordered the seasoned chicken over a bed of jasmine rice, skipping the pita that was usually served with it, eating it, instead, by the forkful."

"I believe there have been some 'recipe tweaks' since you were last home," he informs her. "There is a forum for requesting additions and changes to the replicator libraries via the ship's bulletin board system, but I have never had a use for it, and as your mother's dependent, you did not have access. The permissions attached to your user ID were upgraded when we began to cohabi - is something wrong?" He interrupts himself.

Zoe's face has taken on an expression he cannot interpret.

"I'm sorry," she says in a tone that is both soft and serious. "I know you had me do paperwork when I moved in, last May, but I was so overwhelmed by the idea of living with you full time, worrying what people would think, worrying my mother would disown me, and also preparing to leave, that I barely paid attention to it. It never occurred to me that user permissions would change or… what else, Data? What else changed? What else did I agree to?"

"You did not read everything?"

"I… skimmed," she admits.

"One moment." He leaves the couch for his workstation, calls up a file, transfers the requested information to a padd, and returns, holding the device so that they can both read the information displayed. "There was a basic 'change of address' form, as you called it, that merely confirmed that we are jointly assigned to these quarters. You signed a request for a change in your status; you are now listed on the ship's roster as an independent student in residence. We both updated our emergency contact information – your mother is now your secondary emergency contact, and as I have no other family, Captain Picard is mine but if something should happen to me, you would be the 'first call.'" He pauses to gauge her reaction. "Do you object to any of this?"

"No, of course not. I just… it's not like me not to read things I sign. I mean, I trust you, but… it's not typical for me. I mean, I even read the fine print on the brochure about registering for school here; I remember arguing about it with my mother." She pauses, then asks. "Emergency contact... are you telling me you've designated me your next-of-kin, or something?"

"It does not go quite that far. However, that is something we should discuss."

"I need to update my information with Idyllwild."

"Yes."

"Am I overreacting?"

"I do not believe so. We had only recently returned from Terlina III," he reminds the young woman sitting next to him. "You were, as you stated, in the midst of your preparations to leave the ship. You had also just walked in on your mother and Ed, and one of your closest friends was leaving the _Enterprise_ 'for good.' If I had realized the degree to which you were overwhelmed, I would have taken the time to ensure you understood everything."

Zoe has long since finished eating and set down her bowl. Now she touches his arm. "I know you would've. I'm not angry with you or anything, I just feel a little stupid, because when you mentioned permissions, I felt like… like we – our relationship - became somehow more _real._ "

"Was it not just as 'real' last month, when we spoke of marrying one day?" he asks, confused.

"No it was – it _is_ \- it's just… Seeing documents with our names linked makes everything somehow… _official_." She pauses, then adds, "It was _very_ real when we talked about marriage. And I meant what I said. I'm completely committed to us, but I'm too young for that step. I don't want to be 'Mrs. Data: Child Bride.' I have to be your equal, or at least, I have to seem that way, before we go there."

"I understand," he says, pulling her close, and kissing the top of her head, because he does comprehend. His partner is concerned for his career, and for the way society will perceive both of them, and while he must concede that her concerns are valid he is also compelled to point out, "Zoe, you are already my 'equal' or we would not be here, now. You asked me to promise that I would not propose before your nineteenth birthday, but I did not. Indeed, I _can_ not make that promise, because we cannot know what the future has in store for us between now and then."

"Data…"

"Please allow me to finish?" She nods against his chest, and he continues. "I agree that we are not ready for that step at this time. We require time to… settle – the 'more time in rank' you referred to. We must learn how to live together, here on the ship, but we must also learn how to be apart without it being so difficult."

"Yeah, we both kind of suck at the separation thing."

"Indeed. The past year has been an extremely eventful one, and we did not truly have the opportunity to settle into routine cohabitation before you left. As our couple-hood matures, I believe our ability to cope with separations will be greater."

"You're a font of wisdom lately, aren't you?"

"Only because you 'bring it out' in me." Zoe's arm comes to rest across his mid-section. "There are good reasons why we are not ready for marriage now," he reiterates. "There may be factors that favor _not_ waiting after you complete this semester, or at some other point in the next fifteen months." He rounds the time, aware that a detailed accounting of all the weeks, days, hours, and minutes between this moment that is unnecessary.

"Or there may be factors that result in waiting longer," Zoe adds quietly. Her mood shifts before he can form an adequate response. "So, are we watching a video or not? You're off-duty tomorrow morning, and I'm still on theatre time… and if I fall asleep half-way through whatever, we can finish it tomorrow night."

"I have selected another 'classic,'" Data tells her. "It is reputed to be an excellent film despite being based on what is widely considered to be Ernest Hemingway's worst novel."

"One could argue that even Hemingway's worst is better than a lot of other authors' bests."

"If this were a literary debate, that argument might be relevant," he agrees. "May I start the video now?"

"I'm ready," she says, though she does not move from her current position.

"Computer, reduce illumination by sixty percent. Access entertainment library. Play video: _To Have and Have Not._ "

Zoe remains awake – and riveted – for the duration of the playback.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45827.18**

 **(Tuesday, 29 October 2368, 18:00 hours, ship's time)**

"I'm sorry; I was completely out of synch in that last passage," Zoe apologizes as they finish their first play-through of the Second Duet for Terran Strings, by the contemporary Vulcan composer T'Mirren.

After their video the night before, they had retired to bed, where they had kissed and cuddled, but not engaged in actual sex. Data had held Zoe while she slept, content to be with her, touching her, breathing in the scent of her hair and her skin, and listening to the soft sounds of her own respiration.

He had allowed her to sleep until after Spot had finished her breakfast, then roused her with kisses and coffee.

At Zoe's insistence that a public appearance was in order, Data had accompanied his girlfriend to Ten-Forward, where they shared a table with Commander Riker and Counselor Troi. The former had teased them about their tabloid exploits; the latter had tried to curb her colleague's behavior. Rescue had finally come in the form of Geordi, who appeared just as Zoe received her second cappuccino of the morning. (Data made a mental note to speak to her about her caffeine consumption at a later time.)

A walk in the arboretum had been next: they had had enjoyed a light picnic lunch with Keiko and Molly O'Brien - Zoe had gushed over how much the baby had grown – and harvested fresh catnip for Spot before returning to their quarters for this music session nearly three hours ago.

"Considering that you have not played 'note one' since your mother's wedding, I do not believe that you have anything to apologize for. It is a difficult passage, and the repeated triplets and extended position would challenge any musician."

"Let me try it again and I'll nail it," she suggests.

"We have been playing for two-point-nine-three-seven hours without a break," Data feels obligated to point out. "While I, too, have missed making music together, I do not believe it would benefit either of us to continue. You are showing signs of tiring, and when you 'play tired' you make mistakes and then grow frustrated with yourself. As you are leaving in the morning, I wish to avoid that portion of our routine."

He watches her, nearly able to hear her mentally counting to ten before she responds. Two years ago, when he had initially begun tutoring Zoe in music theory, a similar discussion would have ended in her glowering at him. Today, she pauses to consider his advice, and then concedes. "You're right. I'm out of practice, and already frustrated because of _that_ , and I am a little tired. It's just… ending our rehearsal means that the day is over, and _that_ means my visit is nearly over, and I have to leave again."

There is a sadness to the young woman's tone that he cannot miss, and that he wishes he could erase. Still, he reminds her, "Your leave-taking tomorrow morning will be the last such departure. In six weeks, your contract will be complete, and you will be returning home."

She sighs as she loosens her bow, in preparation for putting her cello away. "And in the meantime, we'll write and talk over subspace. It's better than nothing, but it's not the same."

"No," he agrees, turning away to stow his violin. "It is not the same. Do you regret accepting the job with Idyllwild?"

Zoe shakes her head. "No, I don't. I've learned a lot about my craft, and it's set me on a career path just as much as my internship will when it starts in January. I could have lived without all the tabloids trashing our relationship, but if it hadn't happened, I might not have an agent who even _now_ is trying to convince me to do a play next summer. But don't worry – it would be in one place – way easier than tour."

"Will you do it?" Data asks.

"I'm not ready to commit to anything except coming home to you, right now." She cocks her head to the side, peering at him through half-lidded eyes. "If you had the opportunity to spend three months on another ship, or back at HQ for whatever reason, would you just take it, or would you talk to me about it first?"

The question surprises him. "Unless it was an emergent situation, I would consult you, of course, Zoe."

Her smile is the slightly smug one that means she has made her point. "Okay, so, do you honestly believe I'd accept a gig without talking it through with you?" She leaves her chair and packs her cello into its case as she continues speaking. "You keep reminding me that being a couple means facing things together. That means the good stuff as well as the bad." The snaps on the hard case click into place and Zoe turns back to him, this time presenting the smile he _still_ cannot quite adequately capture on canvas. "We keep talking about these big things – and sometimes it feels like we're moving so fast, and then I realize, Data, we've been a couple for almost a year. That may be nothing to you, but believe me… it's actually pretty impressive."

"It is not nothing." He speaks the words in his usual level tone, but he can see them register on his girlfriend's face.

"No," Zoe agrees. "It isn't. I shouldn't have implied it might be. I'm sorry, I'm just…"

"You are feeling apprehensive about leaving, Zoe. I understand, but everything will be o-kay."

His use of the word is calculated to bring a smile to her face. It works but then she grimaces, and adjusts her posture, arching her back to stretch it. "Sorry, I haven't played in so long, I forgot how physical it could be. I need to take this bra off. Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

She heads for their bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse as she walks.

Data follows behind her, capturing her shoulders before she can twist to remove the offensive undergarment. "Allow me?" he offers.

"Anytime," she replies, apparently grateful.

He unfastens the hooks of her bra and draws the bits of lace and fabric – she has chosen all black today – away from her skin, and while he puts it on a hanger to 'air out,' Zoe continues undressing, down to her underwear, as she did the previous evening. She sits on the bed to remove her socks, and after she tosses them in the general direction of the laundry unit, she begins stretching again, bending her arms at the elbows, pulling them backward, pushing her chest out, then rotating her shoulders.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, "could you toss me the t-shirt I was wearing last night?" She points toward the bench at the foot of their bed.

As he retrieves her shirt, Data watches his lover move her head forward and backward, and then left and right. He has seen this behavior from her before, and knows that it usually signifies tension in her neck and shoulders. He is about to suggest that she take a sonic shower, when another idea occurs to him. He sits next to her on the bed, and reaches out to touch the back of her neck, and trace the lines of her shoulder blades with his fingers. "Your muscles are tight," he observes aloud. "If you will let me, I can help with that."

Zoe leans into his touch. "Are you offering me a massage?" He cannot see her face, but he knows the sound of 'a smile in her voice.' "Because if you are, you should know that the masseuse in the ship's spa always uses lavender and comfrey massage oil on me, but there's a blend on file in the replicator – sweet almond oil with cloves and bay – that reminds me of you."

Immediately, Data begins accessing the never-used files that are part of the information on relaxation techniques he downloaded just after he had retrieved his girlfriend from Lore's derelict ship, as well as a subset of his sexuality programming. "If you will put your hair up, and collect towels, I will replicate the oil you requested." He is aware that a massage may lead to other, more intimate activities, and he finds that idea as appealing as he always does. Their joining has always been as much for him as for her, and as much as he misses Zoe herself, when she is away, he also misses that physical connection to her.

Data has ceased wondering if the fact that he 'likes' sharing sex with his partner is a programming glitch or an anomaly in one of his sub-processors. Zoe has suggested that he may have subtle emotions, _android_ emotions, but if he is not yet ready to accept that idea as truth, he is also no longer denying the possibility.

He considers, yet again, what the emotion chip Lore stole from him might actually _do_ , but he pushes that thought to a low-priority segment of his consciousness. Time spent analyzing probabilities is counterproductive. Time spent with Zoe is at a premium right now. He does not need to perform a cost-benefit analysis to determine where his processing power is best directed.

Her arm slides around his middle, and she squeezes gently. "Put some music on, too? Something soft. Instrumental."

"As you wish."

They part long enough to complete their separate tasks. When Zoe returns from the bedroom, wrapped in the robe she had waiting for him in her San Francisco apartment, her hair twisted into a loose knot on top of her head, skin slightly damp from the quick shower she took, Data has the lights lowered, candles flickering on the nightstands, and soft Latin-influenced music mixed with the sounds of a coastal rainstorm playing in the room.

"You know, if you're trying to seduce me, you're a little late," his lover quips as she takes in the scene – not just the alterations to their room, but the fact that he has stripped to his underwear – black, general issue boxer-briefs, chosen as much because she likes the way he looks in them as because they give the smoothest look to his uniform trousers (something he had never considered before shopping with Zoe). "You've already _got_ the girl."

"That is 'good to know,'" Data replies. "I am told, however, that some things bear repeating."

Zoe grins at him, her dark eyes glowing. "So they do."

He takes the towels she is carrying and spreads one across the middle of their bed, paralleling the mound of pillows at the head, and rolling the other so she can use it as a head-rest. At his silent signal she drops her robe, and takes her position lying face down.

The cloves in the oil are a warming spice, but Data still lets the substance remain pooled in the palm of his hand for six-point-four-three-one seconds before he drizzles it onto his partner's sun-tanned skin. Kneeling beside her, rather than straddling her, he begins with her shoulders, alternating long slow stroking motions with deeper pressure.

"Mmmmm." Zoe's response is non-verbal, but he recognizes it as a combination of both physical and metaphysical relaxation. "Your hands are magic," she murmurs a few minutes later, as he continues his ministrations. "Who've you been practicing on?"

"No one," he answers truthfully. "You are the first." He can see, as well as feel, her beginning to speak as he kneads the tops of her buttocks, and he interrupts with the soft admonition. "We can discuss the 'how' of this later, if you wish. For now, please just… enjoy it?" He makes it a request, almost a plea.

"Mmkay."

Data leans forward to place a kiss at the nape of his girlfriend's neck, heedless of the traces of oil there. She will likely wish to wash her hair in the morning. He wonders if it would be possible to requisition a shampoo bowl and do it for her, but he is uncertain _why_ the image of washing her hair has come to mind. He will ask her… later.

His gold hands are pale against the skin of Zoe's thighs, her calves. He bends her knees slightly, lifting first one foot and then the other so he and work the tension out of her heels and the balls of her toes (her nail polish, he notices, is starting to chip.)

"Zoe, you must turn over now if you wish me to complete this process." His words do not quite break the mood.

But while her movements are languid, her eyes are bright, and she declines his offer of a modesty sheet, smiling at him and teasing him, "I thought this was a full service spa; you're a little overdressed for a 'happy ending.'"

He manages to access the colloquial definition of her phrase without the telltale flicker of his eyes or uttering the word 'accessing,' and his eyebrows lift. "Do you not wish me to finish the therapeutic portion of your massage?"

"There's therapeutic and there's… _Data!_ " She begins to emit her delighted laugh, as she realizes that he has been seducing her all along. "I love you."

"And I am devoted to you," he responds, moving off the bed so he can slide off his form-fitting undergarment, and then returning to straddle her. "If you would prefer a different position…" he begins, because the 'missionary' position is the one they are still cautious about.

But she shakes her head, and reaches for him. "I'm so relaxed, I'm not sure I could manage anything different," she admits. "This is good."

Zoe does not need to remind him to keep his eyes on hers, or to go slowly at first. Data no longer pauses to confirm that he has permission, or that she is certain. Her approval and her surety are evident in the way she arches against him when he trails kisses from her lips to her throat and between her breasts. Her desire for him is in the increased luminosity of her dark brown eyes, and the way her hand strokes his length, teasing every bit of him that she can reach, before he buries that part of him into the center of her moist heat.

Zoe shifts slightly, bending her knees, digging her heels into the bed, opening herself for him. The oil on her skin makes it easier for their bodies to slide against each other, skin moving softly against skin, breaths coming faster and faster, hips rocking in close time.

When his lover reaches her climax, it triggers Data's own release, subroutines responding to physical stimulation, servos and attenuators activating a series of infinitesimal responses that all cascade toward his version of completion. He does not typically cry out, the way Zoe sometimes does, but the fact that they are here in _their_ quarters, in _their_ bed, changes the equation in a way he has not anticipated.

Data holds his partner's gaze, and breathes her name. "Zoe… my Zoe…."

It is approximately three-point-seven-six minutes after they have finished, after he has rolled to the side, and they are nestled together, lying in the 'wrong' direction on the bed, that Zoe lifts her hand to run it through his hair. Her expression is infinitely tender. "That felt different… more intense," she tells him.

"I perceived a difference as well," he reveals, then adds, surprising himself, "but I would prefer not to analyze it just now."

Zoe's laughter bubbles out of her, delighted and happy, and while he cannot, precisely, feel it with her, Data appreciates that his lover finds the humor in the situation, and the corners of his mouth curve slightly upward.

For now, it is enough.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45828.92**

 **(Wednesday, 30 October 2368, 09:17 hours, ship's time)**

Their time together has ended too soon.

"I don't want special treatment," Zoe reiterates as they walk, hand-in-hand, into transporter room three. "We both know if I wasn't dating you, I'd be walking back across the umbilical like everyone else."

"That is not strictly correct," Data informs his girlfriend. "There are three new crew members and their families arriving via transporter within the next hour," he adds. "While the use of the umbilical corridor is the preferred method of ingress and egress while we are docked, when time is of the essence, all available technology is put to use." He wonders if the woman whose hand is tucked firmly into his has noticed the absence of aural quotation marks around the colloquialism he has just employed. "In any case, we are here, now, and changing the method of your transfer would make you late."

"Maybe I _want_ to be late."

"You do not mean that," he states. They enter the chamber and the doors close behind them. "Greetings," he says to the transporter operator on duty.

"Good morning, Commander," the lieutenant responds. "We've got two incoming, and then we'll reset for outbound."

"Very good," Data replies crisply. Still holding his lover's hand, he steps back and lets the younger officer do her job.

Within seconds (seven-point-one-eight-two, to be precise), two forms shimmer into solidity on the raised platform that dominates the room. The taller of them is wearing ops gold, and has only an ensign's pip, which, Data observes, seems inconsistent with the man's apparent age. The shorter figure is a child with dark eyes and medium-brown hair bound into a single braid.

"Ensign Daniel Sutter, and Clara Sutter?" the red-haired lieutenant asks. When the man confirms his identity, and that of his daughter, he is given instructions to follow the corridor to the left and check in with personnel.

"Aye, sir," he says. "Clara…?"

But the little girl, Data observes, is staring at him. No, not merely staring; she has stepped off the platform and has come to stand directly in front of the android. "Hello," the child greets.

"Good morning," Data answers.

"Who are you? No… what are you?"

His answer is given in a somewhat softer tone than that which he would use to answer the same questions coming from an adult. "I am an android," he answers. "I am Lieutenant Commander Data."

"I'm Clara," the girl shares.

"And we're both going to be late," her father puts in. "I'm sorry if my daughter offended you, Commander."

"She has not, but it is not the time to discuss why. Welcome aboard, Ensign. Clara."

"Thank you, sir. We're excited to be here. Clara, let's go."

Somewhat reluctantly, it would appear, the little girl follows her father out of the room.

"He seems old to be an ensign," Zoe observes.

"Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances. I have not yet familiarized myself with the files of all of our new crewmembers."

"But you're going to make him a priority," his partner says.

"I believe this is when I protest that you 'know me too well,'" Data replies, teasing her. "Zoe…"

"I know," she says. "I have to go. Think the lieutenant will be shocked if you kiss me?"

"I do not know."

"If you want privacy, sir," the lieutenant cuts in. "The coordinates for the _Bernhardt_ have just been sent to us, and I don't mind stepping outside for a moment."

"There is no need," Data says.

"He was just playing with you," Zoe elaborates. "It's this new thing he's trying."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Data, your lieutenant called me 'ma'am.' I'm _so_ not old enough to be 'ma'am.'" But Zoe's protestation is mostly in jest, and he gathers her close, so they can share a final, relatively chaste kiss.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I am devoted to you," he answers. "Etudes, Zoe. It is all just etudes. And you will be home in six weeks."

She hugs him with more strength than he expects, and then steps onto the platform. "Ready when you are, Data."

He gives her a nod, then instructs the transporter operator, "One to beam to the _Bernhardt."_

Data's attention remains fixed on Zoe's dissipating form until she is completely gone, and then for zero-point-two-nine seconds afterward. Then he thanks the lieutenant for her work, and leaves the room.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45841.08**

 **(Sunday, 3 November 2368, 20:04 hours, ship's time)**

 **From: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Company**

Dearest Zoe,

I was glad to receive your letter from Risa. While I, too, wish we were there together, I am gratified to know that your room has a bathtub 'nearly big enough to swim in,' and that you have been able to get some 'serious surf time' in. That is quite an accomplishment for your first forty-eight hours on any planet.

I apologize for not being available for a subspace call, but it has been 'quite a week.'

Do you recall the Sutters, the father and daughter who transported onto the _Enterprise_ just before your departure? Clara, it seems, shares your trait of a vivid imagination, except that instead of inventing stories and characters she has developed an imaginary friend.

Counselor Troi has explained that imaginary friends are both common to children of Clara's age, and typically strictly fictional constructs, but in this case, there was an alien entity that grasped onto young Miss Sutter's powerful mental image and… manifested… as a corporeal being. She adopted the name of Isabella, and became extremely protective of Clara, to the point where she threatened terminal harm to the entire complement of the _Enterprise_.

Do not worry; the entity did no permanent harm to the ship or crew, and Captain Picard was able to explain to it that Clara, as a child, had restrictions that adults do not.

I wished to share this with you because I believed you would appreciate that Isabella's arrival occurred in tandem with one of your favorite celebrations: Halloween.

However, since these events transpired, I have become increasingly curious: have you ever had an imaginary friend, Zoe? If you did, was he or she human, or did you imagine something alien, or even fantastic? Is it typical to hold conversations with such… beings? (I am hesitant to use the word 'beings' but there is a distinct lack of appropriate nomenclature.)

I look forward to your insights.

I also look forward to the completion of your tour with Idyllwild and your return… home.

Please give my regards to your mother and Ed when you see them. I am certain they will be 'on board' with your plans for your final semester of secondary school. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need moral support.

Commander Riker is hosting poker this evening, to 'make up for' the game that was cancelled while you were here. I will do my best to 'pound him into the dust and take all his money.'

As ever, I remain your devoted,

\- Data

* * *

 **Notes:** References the episodes "Imaginary Friend" & "Measure of a Man." The Juarez case is a reference to something Zoe hears about in chapter 13 of _Crush II: Ostinato_. It is entirely mine. Definition of 'menuet' comes from ClassicsForKids DOT com. _To Have and Have Not_ is, of course, the film that gave Lauren Bacall her debut. She was just 19 to Humphrey Bogart's 45 when production began in 1944, and while it is based on Hemingway's novel of the same name, the plot was extensively re-worked for the film, both by Hemingway himself, and also by his rival, William Faulkner. The transporter room lieutenant is unnamed, mainly because I didn't want to keep track of yet another OC. Special thanks to **Javanyet** , **Phangirl28** ,and **ReLive4Love** for their input and conversation. Thank you, also, for your continued readership. I appreciate every single one of you.


	7. Gigue

**_Disclaimer:_** ** _Paramount/CBS owns the canon stuff, and I own the rest. No androids were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Really._**

 ** _Structural Note:_** ** _First, this story is actually inspired by Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suites, and each chapter represents a movement in one of the suites. Second, much of this chapter is letters again – unless otherwise noted, all are video recordings. Finally, even though Zoe is no longer on Earth, Terran-equivalent (or near-equivalent) dates have been provided, for ease of time-tracking)_**

* * *

 **UNACCOMPANIED**

 **A Suite for Actress and Android**

 **VII. Gigue**

 _The_ _gigue_ _or giga is a lively baroque dance originating from the British jig. It was imported into France in the mid-17th century and usually appears at the end of a suite._

 **Stardate 45856.32**

 **(Saturday, 9 November 2368, 9:57 AM, local time, Risa)**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

 **To: Lt. Cmdr. Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

Dear Data,

I wish I could tell you that it's taken me until this morning to answer your last letter because I've been savoring your words, or because I've been intentionally increasing the time between messages so that I don't feel quite so dependent on you, but the truth is… our schedule here is a bit different than we're used to, and we're all adjusting.

I mean, I know I've been sending brief notes – safe, well, working – but I also know that even you anticipate more, and you deserve more.

Please forgive me?

Anyway… adjusting… Instead of performing Thursday through Sunday afternoon, we're following a more traditional, more "Broadway" kind of schedule. We have evening performances Tuesday through Saturday, and matinees on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday - eight shows a week – and even though not all of us are in every performance, it's just enough more work that we're all tired and off-kilter.

But being on the beach – I mean – look at this view!

 _[Zoe turns the camera to face out the window of her hotel room, and it shows that her room faces a lagoon.]_

Data, I love our quarters, but I fear I'm being spoiled by bathtubs and beach-front rooms. For the record, the Risan people – I never knew there were native Risans – I thought it was _just_ a terra-formed pleasure planet! – are incredibly passionate about art and the people who create it, and so we all have these amazing rooms because it's their way of thanking us for sharing our art.

 _[She turns the camera back to its usual position.]_

Mom and Ed were supposed to be coming in yesterday, but now they're coming in this Thursday, and we're having coffee on Friday afternoon, and dinner after the Sunday matinee. We're doing _Songs_ … on Friday, the night they come to the show, so at least they'll get to see my best role in this tour. At least, _I_ think it's my best, which is ironic actually, because I'm really not a singer.

Do you want to hear something weird? I'm nervous about seeing them, and I don't know why. I feel like I've changed – matured – so much in these past months, and as soon as I'm back in the same space with my mother I'll somehow revert into childhood again.

Well, it is what it is.

 _[She sighs, then takes a beat before changing the subject.]_

You'd asked me about imaginary friends. And the truth is, Data, yes, I had one when I was little. He was a mer-boy, tan and human-looking from the waist up, gold scales darkening to amber and orange and red and ending in a fish-tail, below, and he kept me sane on all the trips with my father, checking into yet another hotel, where most of the time he would be partying all night, and maybe remember to check on me. And I'd go find the pool, usually with a frustrated _au pair_ in tow, and swim with Alak (that was his name) until my lips were blue and my skin was prune-y.

I'm suddenly very glad you can't laugh at me.

No, that's not accurate.

I'm never glad about that.

But, I _am_ glad that you asked me. And I'm glad I'm on the home stretch of this gig. I meant what I said; if I could go back and choose again, I'd still take the job, but I'm ready to be home for a while.

One more thing, I know you probably can't even answer this, but I heard Lach and the captain of the _Bernhardt,_ and they were talking about a warning to all private and commercial spacecraft about a Borg scout ship being seen in this sector, and all space traffic being held at origin.

I think that's why Mom and Ed are late.

I should go. Wish me luck with the parental units.

I love you,

Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45865.00**

 **(Tuesday, 12 November 2368, 2:11 PM, local time, Risa)**

 **From: Lt. Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Company**

Dearest Zoe,

Please do not apologize for being busy. With the exception of the seventeen-point-three-seven days that the _Enterprise_ spent caught in a temporal causality, we have been remarkably fortunate about the steady rate of correspondence we have managed to keep up. I believe we both knew that it 'would not last.'

You are correct that I cannot give you a direct answer to your query, though I can confirm that there was a departure-stop placed on all commercial, private, and non-essential spacecraft. The captain of the _Bernhardt_ is Daria Roth. She and I were classmates at the Academy and later served together on the _Trieste._ Given that information, you may safely assume that what you overheard was accurate. If you have the opportunity, you should make yourself known to her; I believe the two of you would 'hit it off.'

Please do not worry. Your parents' ship is likely to arrive unscathed.

I am not surprised that your imaginary friend was a mythical sea-being. When you are home, I hope you will share with me some of your adventures with Alak the mer-boy.

For now, I must keep this letter short, as I am involved in a delicate project for Captain Picard.

Yours,

Data

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45873.08**

 **(Friday, 15 November 2368, 1:11 PM, local time, Risa)**

"Mom!" The patio café in the Paradise Lagoon Hotel on Risa was busy enough with the lunch rush that calling out to my mother was the only way I could guarantee she would find me. I saw her turn toward the sound of my voice, and nudge the man next to her, and I called out again. "Mom! Ed! Over here!"

My mother and step-father picked their way through the chairs and tables, edged their way past the pool, and joined me in the shade of a blue and green umbrella. I stood up to exchange hugs with both of them. Ed's embrace was warm and robust, like the man himself. Mom did that thing all mothers do, patting me on the back.

"It's good to see you, Zoificus," she said as we took our seats. A server, dressed in a bikini top and a pareo, came to take our orders, leaving a pot of coffee and cream as she did so. I didn't wait to pour a cup for each of us. "You look good. Tired, but good."

"I _am_ tired. I was home for a couple of days at the end of October, and Data was kind enough to let me sleep through a lot of it, but… we've been going nonstop, and even though I love what I'm doing, I'm glad we're here for a couple weeks, and then we just have one stop left before we're done. Worrying over why you two were late arriving here didn't help any," I added, in mock admonishment. "Especially after I heard all traffic in the sector was being held on a departure-stop. And _why._ "

"Data told you?"

I shook my head. "Not exactly. I heard Lach and our captain talking about it over breakfast, and Data confirmed when I asked. In a roundabout kind of way."

A look passed over my mother's face, and I remembered that like my boyfriend, she had been at the Battle of Wolf 359 almost two years before, and that she had been injured as well. It wasn't that I actively tried to forget such things, but that so much had happened since then.

"It's highly unlikely one scout ship will affect anything here on Risa," my mother said.

"Yeah, Data said that, too." I paused, swirling the coffee and cream in my cup, and then drinking some before I continued. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to bring up a bad memory."

My mother shook her head. "It's fine, Zoe… it's just… things have changed so much since then."

Ed reached over and covered my mother's hand – her left – with his own. "Most of those changes have been for the good, though, Em."

"Oh, definitely," Mom agreed, turning slightly to meet her husband's eyes.

I couldn't help but smile. "I love that you two are so happy."

Our food was delivered, and we kept the conversation light while we ate. Mom and Ed shared some of their honeymoon stories, and I told them some of the backstage stories from Idyllwild, but as the amount of food on our plates diminished, the conversation became a little bit more serious.

"Mom, I need to talk to you about school," I said, just as my mother began a topic of her own.

"Kiddo, I have a job offer I want to talk to you about."

We met each other's eyes, and passed matching grins back and forth. Ed was splitting his attention between us, like a spectator at a tennis match.

"You first," we said at the same time.

"No, you," we both responded.

By that time, all of us were laughing. "Why don't we let Zoe go first," Ed suggested, during a lull.

"Go for it, daughter-of-mine," my mother affirmed.

I took a swig of my just-refreshed coffee. "You know I've applied to Yale, early decision – don't worry; I have backup schools as well – and I should have their official response by the time tour is over in a month, and I'm excited about that, really, but I'd be lying if I said I was excited about going back to regular classes in January. Data and I talked about it some while I was on the ship last month, just casually, and I also spoke to Ms. Phelps, who suggested I might do some kind of internship, and then Captain Picard invited me – well, Data and me – to tea, and an opportunity sort of fell in my lap."

I outlined the pilot program Captain Louvois had detailed to me, and explained that I'd grown beyond normal high school, and felt like I would be regressing if I had to sit in classes.

"Mom, I'm already emancipated, and even if I wasn't, I'm turning eighteen a week after the semester begins. I don't need your permission, but I'd really like your approval."

I noticed that my mother's eyes were misty when I finished talking. "Oh, Zoificus," she said, using her nickname for me for the second time in the same conversation. "How could I not approve something like that? I think it's exactly what you need."

I peered at her over the rims of both our cups. "That was too easy," I declared. "You're about to throw something really tough at me."

Mom set down her cup and glanced at Ed, who covered her hand again. "I told you she'd figure it out," she said to my stepfather.

"And I didn't argue the point," he reminded her. "Zoe, your mother-"

"No, let me," Mom interrupted him. "Zo' darling, I've been offered a teaching position at Starfleet Academy. You know my plan was always to stay on the _Enterprise_ until you finished high school, and I'd been speaking with the chair of the social sciences department about transferring there next fall, but one of the current instructors is pregnant, and going on maternity leave, and they need someone for the new semester."

"Did you already tell them you'd do it?"

"No, I wanted to discuss it with you first."

"As well, I'm still supposed to teach on the _Enterprise_ through May," Ed put in. "So, I'd have to help Ms. Phelps find a replacement."

I acknowledged Ed's statement with a nod, but turned back to my mother. "But you want to," I said.

"I do, Zoe. I really do."

"So, why not just take it; why ask me?"

"Because I brought you to the ship as much because you were out of control on Centaurus, as because I wanted to fix us – fix our relationship." My mother's tone was level, serious, but not without warmth. "I feel like to leave now, before you're done with high school, would be unfair to you. I know you've moved in with Data, but I can't help wondering if I don't owe you a sort of… safety net."

"You think I need a refuge in case Data and I break up?" I asked. I wasn't insulted, though the very notion of a break-up was preposterous. I was moved. "Mom, that's _not_ going to happen."

"You don't know that."

I thought about all the conversations I'd had with Data over the summer, and since, and I smiled as much to myself as for her. "Yeah, actually, I do," I said softly. "Anyway, Mom, Data said I'm no longer listed as your dependent on the _Enterprise_ roster, and if something were to happen, I have people who will give me support. If you feel you should stay on the ship through May, then you should, but please don't give up an opportunity you really want because of me."

My mother freed her hands from Ed's and reached across the table to clasp mine. "Thank you, Zoe, for being so mature about it."

I squeezed my mother's hands, noticing how similar mine were to hers, and then I grinned and tossed off a nonchalant comment. "Oh, haven't you heard? I'm _oozing_ maturity these days."

We finished the meal, which I put on my hotel tab, and parted ways not soon after that.

 **(=A=)**

On Sunday, Mom and Ed didn't join the cast for Chinese food, the way Data had when he'd visited me on Hunter's Moon, but I made sure they met Lachlan and Oberlyne, at least. The burly Scotsman clapped Ed on the back. "So ye teach literature, d'ye? How come the lassling here has nearly no knowledge of Robert Burns, then? I'd take a look at yer curriculum, if I were you."

Ed burst out laughing, realizing that he was being twitted. "I'll take that under advisement."

He'd turned to my mother next. "The lassling is a credit to ye, Commander Benoit," he said, and kissed her hand.

It was the first time I'd heard my mother being addressed by her new name, and I turned my face so that she wouldn't see my reaction.

After we had dinner together, Ed went back to their room to pack, and Mom and I went back to my room to have some more mother-daughter time.

"You were amazing tonight, kiddo," my mother said for the third or fourth time that day.

I smiled as I kicked off my shoes. "I'm glad you think so. I've had fun with the music. Jesse Caldwell would probably scream at some of the things I've done to my voice, though."

"Probably," my mother agreed. "Will you be working with her when you're back on the ship?"

"I think so? I know I need to start arranging things, but I feel like I need to keep my focus here right now. I'll have almost a month before my program starts, anyway." I grinned at her. "I'm sure I won't sleep away more than half of it."

"That must be odd for Data… you having to sleep during a good portion of your time together."

"I don't know if he considers it _odd_ , so much as just… it's normal for me. He stays awake for 'a good portion' of our time together. It goes both ways."

"I suppose it does." She collapsed onto my bed, kicking off her own shoes. "I feel like I should be asking more questions, making sure you're really ready for living with a man – any man."

I laughed softly, and sprawled next to her. "I think you're a little late, Mom. But seriously, it's good. I mean, there's going to be some adjustments – like I keep telling him he doesn't have to stay in bed with me all night." Her face colored slightly, and her eyes darted away from mine. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It's a very odd thing," my mother explained after a bit, "a very odd feeling, to be talking about love and sex with the daughter you remember giving birth to, and teaching to walk and talk, and reading to sleep at night."

I smiled softly. "You used to do all the voices." I remembered telling Data about that once. "And I got impatient and wanted to know what was next in the story, and then you stopped reading to me. And now I'm on stage, acting the stories."

"Do you love it? You said you did, but… do you _really_ love it?"

"Yeah, Mom. I do. I _really_ do. I mean, I'm always going to have music in my life. There are times that I feel like I _think_ in music. But I love this as much, or more, and I'm excited about this internship-thing, and trying _not_ to get excited about Yale until I hear for sure."

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."

"Everyone keeps saying that. Even _Data_ says I'm a shoe-in."

Mom laughed. "Did he use that phrase?"

"Oh, yes. Audible quotation marks and all."

We both laughed at that, our voices mixing. I wondered why I'd never noticed how similar our voices were, I mean, hers was still a warm alto to my perky mezzo-soprano, but… a lot of our patterns were the same. I missed it, I realized, being with my mother, and I was suddenly aware how much I'd miss, being without her. Softly, after our laughter had ebbed into a comfortable silence, I asked, "Would you really stay on the _Enterprise_ until May, just because I might need you?"

"I really would," my mother answered. Then she reached across the space between us to brush my hair back behind my ears with gentle fingers. "I'm so proud of you, Zoe. You've grown into an accomplished, talented, beautiful young woman."

I could feel myself blushing. "It's kind of miraculous, really. I was _such_ a brat when you brought me to the _Enterprise._ "

"Yes, you were."

"You weren't supposed to agree!"

"Oh, Zoificus, you know I love you like no one else."

I smiled. "I know. And… for the record… I never hated being there as much as I might have said I did."

"And now you're calling it home, and in a committed relationship, not just with an officer, but a _line_ officer, at that."

"Yeah, I've pretty much resigned myself to being irony's pin-up girl."

"Pin-up?" my mother arched a brow.

"Well, poster-child sends the wrong message. And isn't that the conceit we're playing with here? The young starlet and the dashing officer?" I was teasing her, and she knew it.

Our mutual laughter lapsed into silence again, until we were interrupted by the comm-system chiming. It was Ed, reminding my mother that they had an early morning departure.

We both got to our feet, Mom slid her feet back into her shoes, and I walked with her to the door. "Be safe, kiddo," she said. "I'll see you in a month."

"I love you, Mom. I'm glad you included me in your honeymoon trip."

She pulled me into a tight embrace, ruffled my hair, and left.

I stared at the closed door for several seconds. Then I went to get ready for bed.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45882.34**

 **(Monday, 18 November 2368, 10:30 PM local time, Risa)**

The comm-signal chimed right on time, not even thirty seconds after I'd finished my bath and wrapped myself in the luxurious bathrobe provided by the hotel. Part of me wanted to steal it – it was that plush – but I had a bathrobe, just as soft, waiting for me in the bathroom at home on the _Enterprise._

"Hey handsome," I greeted after the hotel logo resolved first into the Starfleet logo, and then into the specific insignia for the ship where my boyfriend was waiting for me, and finally into the pale gold face I loved so well. "It feels like _forever_ since we've had a proper call. Have Mom and Ed made it back yet? Are you okay? Do you know how much speculating I end up doing when you're all cryptic about your work?"

Data didn't laugh at me, but I'm pretty sure he would have if he could have. As it was, there was a slight widening of his eyes and a subtle quirk at the edges of his mouth that told me he was finding my barrage of questions familiar, not only because it came from me, but because he often exhibited the same tendency.

 _"It has not been 'forever,' Zoe,"_ he began, his tone affectionate and chiding at once. _"However, I agree that it has been 'too long' since we have had a real-time conversation. To answer your other questions, Commander and Professor Benoit's shuttle is not due to rendezvous with the ship until late tomorrow afternoon, but we have made contact, and they are 'fine.' I am also functioning adequately; though missing you has caused my efficiency to decrease by one-point-one-three-seven percent. As to any speculation I may have caused, while the limits of your vivid imagination are not calculable, I can surmise that any number of scenarios occurred to you. The alternative to being cryptic would be to 'blow you off,' and I believe that would have been a lower-percentage choice."_

I had to grin at his rapid-response answers, but I also had to ask, "If you _could_ tell me what you were working on, would you?"

 _"Of course, Zoe. Always."_

"Okay. So, since _you_ can't talk about _your_ work, let _me_ tell you about _mine._ Today, we went to a local elementary school, and did basic acting workshops with the kids. We talked about _The Tempest_ , and how Shakespeare often used magical characters to goad and to guide the other characters, and we did some improvisation with them, where we would give them an idea and they'd do a scene, and then they'd give us an idea and we'd improvise it for them. Data, I have no desire to ever be a teacher for a living, but it was _so_ much fun."

 _"It sounds as though both you and the children had a rewarding and enriching experience."_

"Yes! So, Wednesday, for our last matinee before we leave Risa, all the kids and their parents are coming to see _The Tempest_." I paused a moment, and let my face soften. "I think you should know, though, that you have someone competing for my hand. An eight-year-old named Tobin asked me to marry him today."

Data's eyebrows lifted and fell very quickly, and when he spoke his tone was grave, but I knew he was teasing me. _"What did you tell him?"_

"I told him that it was kind of him to offer, but since I was leaving in two days, it might be wiser if he set his sights on a girl who lived on Risa. He saw the wisdom of my suggestion."

 _"Ah, then he is a bright young man."_

"Very much so. He wants to make holodeck games about giant monsters when he grows up, and he made sure to show me his art folder, so I could be properly impressed. I was actually more impressed with his teacher."

 _"Oh?"_

"Sarah Finch. Really lovely woman, about five years older than I am. She's actually applied to be a primary school teacher on a starship."

 _"If you are asking me to 'pull strings,'"_ Data began, but I cut him off.

"I'm not. _I wouldn't._ But we went to dinner tonight and I told her what it was really like being a student on a ship. I think she'd do really well, actually. Not that I was ever in the ship's primary school. If nothing else, I'm pretty sure we'll stay in touch."

 _"You do seem to have a talent for acquiring friends," my partner observed. "I believe that will serve you well in your internship."_

"I hope so." I took a beat. "So, I told my mother about that, and you were right, she's totally on board with it. Although, she might not be on board – literally – after the holidays."

 _"I do not understand."_

I opened my mouth to tell him about my mother's offer from the Academy, but something occurred to me before I began to speak. "Data… can you listen to what I'm telling you as my boyfriend, as family, and _not_ as second officer of the ship?"

 _"You wish this to be unofficial?"_

"Something like that. As far as I know it's just an offer, and I don't want it to affect anything, but it affects us – well, me – and I need your input."

 _"Will you wait one moment?"_ I nodded, and he stepped away from his console. When he returned a minute or so later, he was no longer wearing his uniform jacket, only the tight, black t-shirt that went underneath it. I hadn't just _looked_ at him wearing that in a long time, and I felt my breath catch in in my throat. _"Zoe…?"_

"Sorry," I said. Was I blushing? I didn't _think_ I was blushing. "Data, you know when I called you handsome earlier, I wasn't just teasing, right? I mean, you know…"

 _"I know,"_ he said softly. _"As I believe you know that I find you to be beautiful. However, you were going to tell me something about Emily."_

"Right." I explained about her offer to teach at the Academy, and how she'd basically implied it was up to me. "I told her not to base her decision on that, but… she's my mother. She can't… not."

 _"Do you believe you require the 'safety net' she spoke of?"_ Data asked.

"I don't know. We've had barely a week, plus a two-day visit, of sharing quarters on the ship. We've had a month together, plus the odd visits, in my apartment on Earth, but that's a lot different than sustaining our living arrangements. I _want_ to believe I'm ready. I know I don't want to live with Mom and Ed. But sometimes, I feel like everything with us is so big and intense."

 _"Zoe, if you are reconsidering our cohabitation, I will understand. It is a 'big step,' for both of us."_

"Do you ever? Reconsider?"

 _"I have had ample time to do so, during these past months. I have discussed our relationship with Counselor Troi, as you know, and I have learned much from the time we spent together in San Francisco. I would not have suggested that you move in if I had not believed it was the correct choice for us. I still believe it to be the correct choice."_

Data's words were all the reassurance I needed. "All this time," I told him, "I've been thinking about waking up every day in our bed, and coming home to you – and being home for you when you return from an away mission. As I said, sometimes everything feels intense and huge, and sometimes I get a little nervous, but no, I'm not reconsidering. Actually, I'm looking forward to my first Christmas on the ship – my first Christmas with _you_."

 _"You will not be spending the holidays on Centaurus?"_

I shook my head. "I hadn't planned to. I mean, I easily could. We're heading there as soon as we're done performing on Wednesday, but… I want to be home, and home is where you are."

I could see that my words had touched him, but what Data said was, _"I believe that you know what you will tell your mother."_

I grinned at him. "I believe you're right. As usual." I wrinkled my nose on the last two words, but I'm sure he realized I was kidding. I waited a beat, and then said, "I should probably get ready for bed. Talk soon?"

 _"As soon as we are able. Goodnight, Zoe."_ Data put his hand against the camera in his console, and I matched it with mine. _"I am devoted to you."_

"G'night, Data. I love you."

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45896.45**

 **(Sunday, 24 November 2368, 02:27 hours, ship's time)**

 **Aboard the** _ **FRS Bernhardt,**_ **en route from Risa to Centaurus**

The Idyllwild Theatre Company owned two warp-capable starships. One was the _Olivier_ , but it was currently docked at Jupiter Station, undergoing repairs. The other was the _Bernhardt_ , which had been my home-away-from-home since my mother's wedding. She wasn't a bad ship, really – every member of the company had their own room, with a sink/head/shower unit, but the replicators were basic units, and only existed in the common areas, one for passengers, one for crew. Similarly, there was a basic comm-center for unofficial use, but except for a few short messages – the digital equivalent of postcards, really – I resisted using the thing.

As for the crew, we ran into them at meals from time to time – the common areas weren't that far apart – and of course we'd all been introduced to each other on the first day aboard, but it wasn't like the _Enterprise_ , where officers, crew, civilian consultants and scientists, and students mixed relatively freely.

It came a surprise to me, then, when someone banged on my cabin door sometime after two on Sunday morning. "Ms. Harris, are you awake."

I was, but only because I'd saved Data's last letter to my personal communicator, and I was playing it for the sixth or seventh time. "I'll be right there," I called. I set the comm-unit aside and pulled a bra, a pair of sweatpants and slippers on underneath the Starfleet Academy Athletics t-shirt I was already wearing. It was Data's of course. Someday, I'd have him explain why he'd kept a never-worn shirt. P.E. had been the one set of requirements the Academy had allowed him to skip. In the meantime, I was glad I had something of his that I could wear in public

I pressed the button to activate my door, and found myself face-to-face with an eager-faced young (not much older than me, if that) yeoman. "Ma'am, you have a subspace call from the _U.S.S. Enterprise,_ and Captain Roth has requested that I escort you to the bridge to take it there."

"Thank you." I said. "Um, forgive me, but how do I address you. I know you're a yeoman, but…"

"I'm Matt," came his answer. "We're pretty informal here. Captain Roth is 'Captain' until she tells you otherwise, and our Chief Mate, Madison Sinclair, is 'Chief' to almost everyone, but most of us just use our names."

"Thank you. I've lived on a starship for most of the last three years. I finally got used to that hierarchy when I started dating… you don't really want to know this, do you?" I was following him down the corridor of the residential deck and toward the forward turbo-lift.

But Matt was amiable enough. "I don't mind. But begging your pardon, Ms. Harris – "

"Zoe," I corrected.

"Zoe, then. We all know who you are."

I blushed. "I guess the tabloids get around."

"There's that, but…" he stepped into the 'lift and I followed.

"But what?"

"We had a message from someone on the _Enterprise_ asking that we look out for you," Matt admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "The gentleman who sent it… I guess he and the captain go way back, because she didn't even grumble. Just smiled the way older people do when they're remembering lost youth."

"Why Matt, are you a bit of a poet?" his observation had been too on point, and I couldn't help but tease him a little.

"I write a little. Not poetry so much. Short stories."

"Are you published?"

"In a couple of journals."

"I'd love to read some of your work, if you don't mind."

"I'll bring you a data solid at breakfast."

"Thank you."

The turbo-lift stopped, the doors opened, and Yeoman Matt ushered me onto a bridge that was as efficient as it was small. "Here's Ms. Har – _Zoe_ , Captain."

A woman with hair that was half-way between blonde and white rose from the command chair, and climbed up the three stairs to the mezzanine level of the bridge. "Welcome to my bridge," she greeted in a voice that was raspy but managed to convey good humor. Her blue eyes twinkled merrily. "Ol' Sarah is a basic ship, but she's sturdy. I'm Captain Roth, but you can call me Dotty." She made it into a challenge.

"It's good to meet you, Dotty," I said, extending my hand, which she met in a firm, quick shake.

The older woman laughed. "Good show! Right, you've got a call waiting. My office is just through there, the system's engaged already, and take as long as you need."

"Thank you," I said, and moved toward the door she'd indicated. I wound up in a space that was less than half the size of Captain Picard's ready room, but was cheerfully cluttered and quite cozy. I took the seat behind Dotty's desk, and took the call off-hold. "Data?" I could tell, without him speaking a word, that something was _off_. "What's wrong?"

 _"I am sorry to call you so late,"_ he began, uncharacteristically tentative _. "I assumed you would wish to know."_

"Know what? Data? It's not… it's not my mother?"

 _"No, Zoe."_ His eyes had been downcast, but he raised his chin slightly, and I saw how wide open they were. _"Your mother is well. It is… it is Geordi. He is dead."_

I squeezed my own eyes shut in a combination of relief and sudden sadness. "Oh, Data. I'm so sorry, love." I'd never called him that before, but there was no better endearment for him. "When's the funeral? Should I try to come home?" The last, of course, was not likely to be possible. We were in the middle of the space lanes, nowhere near a starbase, and the two ancient runabouts that we used for shuttling ourselves and our gear back and forth between the ship and whatever planet we were on, would never survive a journey to wherever the _Enterprise_ might be.

 _"I do not believe it is possible for you to get here soon enough,"_ Data said, one part of his brain having already calculated possible modes and routes for travel. _"But I appreciate that you are willing."_

"Willing? Data, Geordi's your best friend. He's the brother you _should_ have had. I'm your girlfriend. This isn't about being _willing_ , this is about being where I'm supposed to be. At your side. Supporting you the way you always support me."

 _"I am an android,"_ he said flatly. _"I do not require support."_

"Yeah, we both know that's not true." It came out snarkier than I'd meant.

He blinked, and when he looked back at me again his eyes, instead of being wide, revealed a sort of tightness, almost like when a child is close to tears. _"It is possible that I was mistaken. However, it is still not possible for you to get here in a reasonable timeframe. Perhaps we could… talk for a while?"_

Seeing him so unsure was heartbreaking. "I'd like that," I said. "Dotty said to take as much time as I needed. So, is there going to be a funeral?"

 _"There will be a memorial,"_ he corrected quietly. _"As there were no bodies to recover. Ensign Ro was lost as well."_

I'd only really met the Bajoran ensign in passing, though Guinan had suggested she might be worth knowing. Still, the _Enterprise_ was a community, and she was part of it, as was I, I realized, even after being mostly away for half a year. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm told she kept you lot on your toes."

 _"She and the captain often argued,"_ Data confirmed. _"I believe he enjoys being in the company of intelligent beings who do not always adhere to his views."_

"From what little I know of Captain Picard, I think that's quite likely." I brought him back to center again. "So, there's going to be a memorial. Who's planning it?"

 _"I am."_

"You should make it a celebration of their lives. Get people to trade stories. Don't let it be maudlin. If you do, people will only remember the bad stuff, especially where Ro is concerned."

He took a fraction of a second to respond, apparently considering what I'd suggested. _"I believe that is wise advice,"_ he told me. _"Zoe, I am puzzled by something."_

"Data?"

 _"Since learning of Geordi's demise, I have been comparing my perceptions now with my perceptions from when Tasha died, several years ago. In that case, while I noted her absence, I did not have any quantifiable decrease in my processing power. My efficiency did not waver. I missed her presence, for a time, but I have now spent many more years on the Enterprise without her, than I did with her."_

"And it's different with Geordi?"

 _"With Geordi… I cannot imagine a loss I would experience as keenly, with the exception of Captain Picard's. Having come too close to losing you, last February, I refuse to consider what my response to_ your _death might actually be."_

I took a breath. "Well, I don't think that's unusual. You work very closely with Geordi, but you also spend time with him off-duty. You told me you'd never really socialized with Tasha."

 _"That is true."_

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to offer insight in this case, Data. All I know about your relationship with Tasha is that you were colleagues and casual friends, who had what amounts to a one-night stand, and frankly, from what you've told me, I don't think she treated you particularly well, but… as much as I wish I were a better person, my view of what you've told me is colored – _biased_ – by the relationship that _we_ have." I hesitated, afraid I'd said too much. "I'm sorry," I apologized. "I shouldn't have sa – "

He cut me off. _"I believe we agreed some time ago that you would not apologize for your feelings, Zoe, whatever they are."_

I responded with a wry chuckle. "How 'bout you let me rephrase?"

Data accepted my offer. _"Please?"_

"Grief is personal. Personal to the person grieving, and absolutely specific to the person being mourned. Geordi was your closest friend. Your friendship with him goes as deep, maybe even deeper in some ways, than our relationship. It's normal that you'd perceive his loss differently."

 _"That… makes sense,"_ Data said slowly. _"Yes, I accept your assertion. However, I do not think it is appropriate to compare our relationship with the friendship I had with Geordi. You are my partner, my lover. Geordi was neither of those."_

"Okay," I said. "I get that." I took a beat, changing tacks in an attempt to help him be a little less melancholy. "Geordi was a good friend to you, but he was my friend, too. Did you know he gave _me_ the same 'what are your intentions' speech my father gave you?"

 _"I did... not."_

I nodded. "Oh, he did. It was when we were on Terlina III. When I was avoiding the lab. He asked me if it 'bothered me' that you are an android."

 _"What did you say?"_

"I don't remember exactly. I just remember that he was incredibly protective of you." I paused, thinking of an entirely different conversation I'd had with the affable chief engineer. "You sent him, didn't you? When I asked for a break, last year. I was so confused about us… And then he came to my door and dragged me to the holodeck for flitter lessons."

 _"I… yes."_

"He called me 'the woman my best friend is in a relationship with,' and it was the first time anyone had actually referred to me – or us – that way."

 _"He admonished me for making that promise to your mother."_

"Really?" I laughed. "I would love to know how _that_ conversation went. I'm going to miss him. I wish I could be there. I feel farther away from you than just the actual distance."

 _"You will be home soon."_

I give him a watery smile. "Yeah." I pause. "Would you tell me about the first time you and Geordi met?"

Something about my request brightened Data's demeanor. _"Certainly. It was not long after Captain Picard assumed command of the Enterprise. Geordi was assigned to the helm, then and – "_

"Wait, he wasn't always an engineer?"

 _"No."_

"Wow, I never knew that. It always seemed like his true calling."

 _"I believe you are correct."_ Data arched his brows, causing his forehead to wrinkle slightly as he ducked his head a tiny bit. _"May I continue?"_

"I'm sorry. Yes, go ahead."

We talked for probably another hour, and at the end of it, I knew more about Geordi, but I'd also learned a lot about the way Data had grown and changed since they'd become friends. I'd never wanted to hug him more than when we ended our call that morning.

 **(=A=)**

After the connection was closed, I left Dotty's office, returning to the bridge. "You look like you were run hard and put away wet," she said, turning her chair to face me.

"Excuse me?"

"It's horse talk. I come from a long line of horse people. It means you look beat."

"The chief engineer of the _Enterprise_ was lost in an accident during an away mission," I explained, trying to keep the tears I hadn't cried on the call with Data at bay. "His name was Geordi, and he was… he was the nicest guy on the ship, if not in Starfleet, and my boyfriend's best friend."

The captain glanced at the chronometer readout on her console. "And no wonder, it's gone zero-six-hundred. Chief'll be up here to take the conn – I'm a night owl, so I take the night shift on purpose – any second now. Why don't you join me for a bit in the officer's mess, and then I'll make sure your mates don't wake you until you've slept yourself out."

"I'd like that," I agreed, and then I shook my head slightly, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling in silent acceptance of yet another instance of my partner being right about something. "Data told me you and I would hit it off," I confessed to the gritty captain. "He's going to be so smug when I tell him about this."

"Data? Smug?" Her tone was full of disbelief.

"Trust me, you haven't seen smug until you've seen it from an android."

 **(=A=)**

The officer's mess wasn't so much as mess hall as a kind of living room blended with a pub. Two replicators dominated the aft wall, but there was also a bank of stasis units holding the favorite foods and beverages of the crew, as well as a variety of reheating units. Idyllwild may not put a lot of tech into their ships, but was clear that the officers and crew of the _Bernhardt_ were treated very well.

"Come sit with me," Dotty invited, leading me to a table in a secluded alcove, obviously _her_ spot. Someone even younger than Matt, dressed in plain whites came over to see if the captain needed anything.

"Bring us a pot of tea, with all the fixin's, and replicate a couple of ham and egg skillets, if you don't mind?"

"Not at all, Dotty; happy to help."

"Good show, Rob. Thank you."

The boy left to fetch the requested items and Dotty, I noticed, watched him go. "He's my nephew," she explained. "My little brother's kid. Hated the structure of school, so he's technically homeschooled, and the crew acts as his teachers. He might have my job one day. He might not, but being here keeps him out of trouble."

Laughter bubbled out of me, unbidden and unwanted. "My mother dragged me to the _Enterprise_ when I was fifteen because I was out of control back on Centaurus. Now I know that being out of control was the only thing I _could_ control while I watched their marriage fall apart."

"And that's how you met Data?"

"Technically, I met him two years before then, on a visit to the ship, but… that's when I got to know him as something more than a name. I was his student - he led an advanced mathematics tutorial for a few of us in the high school – and then, when I needed an upper level music theory class, instead of just unlocking the holodeck program, he decided to work with me himself." I paused as Rob returned with tea, mugs, milk, sugar, and plates of the egg dish Dotty had requested.

After he left again, I changed the subject slightly. "He said you were at the Academy together. Were you friends?"

Her face clouded. "We could have been. We _should_ have been, but none of us were terribly kind to him, though I think most of us regretted it later. Has he told you much about what he was like then?"

I shook my head. "Not a lot. He's said he didn't really socialize. He showed me a painting he liked – we have a copy in our quarters."

"The Mondrian?"

"You know about that?"

"My boyfriend at the time was an art student, and a docent at the museum; it seemed like something an android might respond to."

I smiled softly, remembering when Data had brought me to the museum at the beginning of my time with Idyllwild. "He did. He told me he used to go there and just… be… whenever the growth in his neural net got too fast."

"Glad to hear it. Eat – the food's getting cold. And drink the tea. You've had a shock and sugary tea will help." She jabbed her fork toward my plate. "I mean it, Zoe. Eat."

Dutifully, I poured tea into my cup, and added more sugar than I'd typically use in a week. The resulting beverage was sweet and hot and oddly comforting. I drained the mug and poured another, but with a more normal amount of sweetener. After that I started eating.

"Data implied that you are friends."

"We… _became_ friends," Dotty explained. "One of our classmates, Tiffani Farber managed to get her hands on Data's specs, and learned about his sexual programming. She decided that banging the only sentient android in the Federation would be some kind of trophy-worthy achievement."

I closed my eyes against the memory of Data's vague mention of the event. "He told me… he told me she only wanted to 'fuck a robot.' She succeeded."

"She did. And after that… Data was different. Flatter. Much more… machine like."

"You're making it sound like he had emotions before."

"Not developed ones, I don't think, but… before Tiffani got her claws in him, he was starting to loosen up a little. And after… it was as though something in him decided that all the people telling him a machine couldn't feel had to be right."

"You know; this isn't really helping me be less sad about Geordi dying." I blurted. "But… it's putting a lot of things in perspective. How _did_ you become friends?"

"Not trying to help you be less sad, Zoe. Just trying to make sure you're distracted long enough to eat and drink – make sure the body's taken care of before you let the emotions take over. Anyway, Paolo – that was my artist boyfriend – and I were the only people who reached out to Data, after that girl hurt him. It was easier for Paolo, because he was used to dealing in abstracts, and he'd been jilted before. But… we reached out to him. Included him in as much as we could. He and Paolo spent that summer doing art together."

"He still does art. He uses it to process things."

"Sounds about right. Anyway, Paolo and I broke up, and I got Data in the divorce, but we were in second year by then, and the work was so intense that there was less and less time to socialize. Ten-twelve years later, we were both assigned to the _Trieste_. I was the exec, he was the science officer, and we became, if not good friends, then, good colleagues at least."

"Is he the one who told you to watch over me?"

She cracked a wry smile. "He is." She pointed at my plate. "Two more bites, and I'll let you go crash."

I ate the last of the egg dish and pushed my plate away. As if on cue, the tears started to pool in my eyes, and I began sobbing.

Oberlyne and Lach appeared on either side of me; apparently having been paged by Dotty at some point. "Lassling, come here." The big Scot and his wife pulled me out of my chair and into a three-way hug.

"C'mon, Zoe, let's get you to bed. You can sleep until we reach Centaurus, if you need to," my friend urged. "Dotty, thank you for taking care of her."

"She's family, in more ways than one," I heard the captain say. "I'd have done it for any of you."

"Aye, 'tis why we love ye, you old broad." Lach tossed the words over his shoulder as the three of us left the mess.

They escorted me all the way back to my cabin, where Lach remained outside, and Oberlyne stood over me, making sure I took my bra off, insisting I wash my tear-streaked face. Then she handed me a glass of water and a capsule. "Doc Browne gave me a mild sedative for you. You don't have to take it, but it will relax you enough to ensure that you sleep."

"I'll take it," I said, and did so.

Oberlyne waited for me to get into bed, and turn on the tiny reading light. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Zoe. Rest now, and come find me or Lach or Dotty if you need anything, even if it's just not to be alone."

Fatigue was hitting me in waves, and the sedative was helping them along. "Thank you," I mumbled. I pulled my padd from the nightstand and set it to play the recording Data had made for me on auto-repeat. Then I turned out the light, and went to sleep.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45904.32**

 **(Tuesday, 26 November 2368, 11:36 PM, local time, Centaurus)**

It was distinctly weird being in a hotel on my home planet, less than an hour's flitter ride from my father's house, but at eleven-thirty-six on Tuesday night, that's where I was.

I hadn't quite slept all the way through the last three days of our voyage, but I had slept the clock around on Sunday, waking just after midnight, ship's time, on Monday morning to find that Dotty had left word for me to see her on the bridge when I was awake, and that Matt had actually left me the data solid with his stories.

They were the action-adventure fantasies of anyone who was living on a transport ship, a little trope-y but well written with characters that rang true. They would have made a great tri-vee series, actually.

By Tuesday morning, I'd regained my equilibrium, though my thoughts kept straying to Geordi – we'd barely begun getting to really know each other – and to Data, coping with the loss of his truest friend. I felt like I'd failed him in some way, but Dotty had talked sense into me, and made me promise to keep in touch.

"Invite me to the wedding, if nothing else," she'd teased as I'd taken my leave of her.

"That won't be for _years_ ," I insisted. "You should come visit the _Enterprise_ , Data would love to see you." I hadn't asked him, but I knew it was true.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid. I swore after Wolf 359 that I was done with the 'fleet. Too much death and loss in one lifetime isn't good."

"At least think about it?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll… think… about it." And she'd cracked her lopsided grin, brushed my proffered hand away in favor of a brisk hug, and then pushed me away. "Go pack, get going… I have a ship to dock."

But that had been hours before.

By six, we'd all been given our room keys and dispersed to unpack and freshen up before meeting for dinner in the hotel restaurant. I talked and laughed with my colleagues – my friends – but my heart wasn't in it. I was grieving, and I was lonely, and I was ready to be done.

Just before midnight, I finally sat down to make the subspace call, only to have an incoming call come in before I could do anything. _Please be Data_ , I begged the universe.

My plea was answered.

 _"Zoe, I am glad to find you awake."_

"It's barely midnight. How did the memorial go?"

 _"It turned out to be a celebration of a different sort. Geordi and Ensign Ro are not dead after all. They were merely out of phase with our time continuum."_

I felt relief and happiness flood through me. "I'm so glad. I've been feeling like I failed you for not being there."

 _"You did not fail me, Zoe. You could not. You recognized that I required support when I myself did not, and you provided it in the best way you were able at that time. The only other thing you could have done was to take better care of yourself."_

I answered with an amused snort. "I was well taken care of. Dotty fed me - and kept me distracted while I actually ate the food she provided. We had an interesting conversation."

 _"I was certain you would 'click' with her."_

"Lach called her a 'broad' to her face, and I'm not sure he was wrong. But yes, we clicked. I'm sorry it took an apparent tragedy for me to get face-time with her, but we had a good talk. Then Lach and Oberlyne tucked me into bed and knocked me out for the better part of a day." I paused. "She filled in some blanks for me, told me what you were like at the Academy. There are some questions I'd like to ask you, when I get home."

 _"I anticipated as much."_

"Data… promise me something?"

 _"Anything I am able."_

"Don't die. Don't ever die."

 _"Zoe…"_

"Just for tonight?"

He didn't close his eyes, the way I would if our positions were reversed. He didn't take a deep, cleansing breath. His eyes flickered back and forth for the briefest of moments. _"Very well,"_ he agreed. _"Just for tonight, I promise."_

I smiled at his image, and lifted my hand to touch the console. "Etudes?" I asked him.

He understood what I was really asking, and matched my hand with his. _"Etudes,"_ he confirmed.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45916.19**

 **(Sunday, 1 December 2368, 7:53 AM, local time, Centaurus)**

 **From: Lieutenant Commander Data,** _ **U.S.S. Enterprise**_

 **To: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

My Dearest Zoe,

It is the first of December, according to the Terran Calendar, which means that your time with Idyllwild is now measurable in mere weeks, rather than in months, or quarters of years, and yet, in terms of our locations in the galaxy, we have never been further apart.

Geordi tells me that I have been brooding ever since his 'return from the dead,' and I believe he is correct. When I mentioned to Geordi that you had asked me to promise not to die, he explained that your request does not mean that you believe such things can be controlled, but rather, that you did not wish to consider the possibility that you might lose me.

He also informed me that a friend's death is often the prompting one needs to tell their loved ones what they truly feel, 'before it is too late.'

In our case, however, the greatest, most immediate obstacle we face is not death but distance.

In all of my research on romantic relationships, Zoe, I have found little useful information about how to reassure one's mate that you are still 'together' even when she is 'too far away,' but I believe the 'love letter' is an appropriate method. However, I cannot give you flowery speeches or profess undying love.

What I can give you, my Zoe is the truth: you are dear to me, and I am devoted to you.

You told me, on your visit home, that you sometimes wonder if you give me as much as you believe that you get.

Let me assure you that you do. Your presence in my life has enriched every aspect of my being. You have improved my music, influenced my painting, and made my quarters into our home. Even though you have spent only two nights in our quarters in the past six months, your essence has never left.

I find strands of your hair on the arm of the couch, or clinging to articles of my clothing, and I am able to discern the scent of your shampoo. Your belongings share space with mine. Your cello, standing in the corner near my violin, appears to await your return, as I do.

When you are not here, I experience a sense of incompletion, one that can only be resolved by your presence.

I am counting the seconds until we are reunited.

Until then, I remain,

Yours, Data.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45937.84**

 **(Monday, 9 December 2368, 06:00 hours, ship's time)**

 **Aboard the** ** _FRS Bernhardt_** **, en route from Centaurus to Earth**

 **To: Lt. Commander Data,** ** _U.S.S Enterprise_**

 **From: Zoe L. Harris, Idyllwild Theatre Co.**

Dear Data,

It's six in the morning here on the _Bernhardt_ , or " _Old Sarah_ ," as Dotty refers to her, and I'm recording this in bed because I can't sleep.

Why can't I sleep? It should be obvious: we're en route to Earth. We've had our last performance, and in two-and-a-half days, I'll be greeting Nonna and Papa at San Francisco Spaceport and flying back to Connecticut, to stay with them until the _Enterprise_ arrives at Spacedock.

How perfect is it that my home is coming to me, rather than me having to take multiple vessels to get home? Everyone in the cast keeps teasing me that the flagship is coming because I'm _that_ important, and all I can say is: I wish!

My time on Centaurus was… weird. Good-weird, but still weird. It was like coming home to a place that isn't quite the same place you remember. I know that doesn't really make sense. We had performances and workshops with more school kids and talk-backs after the shows, and we did a couple of the songs from _Songs for a New World_ on a local morning news program, and they introduced me as "our very own Zoe Harris," but when my father was on the next segment, they introduced him as "father of the up-and-coming actress," and I had to laugh because I've been "Zach Harris's daughter" for _so_ long.

Dad and Gia came to the final weekend of our performances, and saw every show, even _Darmok_ , which I'm not even in! Gran came to the city, too, but only saw my performances. Then, on Sunday afternoon, after the matinee, Dad brought our entire cast and crew out to Beach Haven and threw a barbecue. It was really lovely, but so odd to be a guest in the home I grew up in.

Zeke is getting big, by the way. He's almost a year old, you know, and he's started pulling himself to his feet, using the coffee tables, or a chair, and taking a few tentative steps.

It was a long day, but we went directly from Beach Haven back to the _Bernhardt,_ where, as I said, I'm not-sleeping.

Your letter from the first has joined your song recordings as permanent files on my padd, and I think I've listened to it about fifty times already, and watched it twice that many times. Never let anyone tell you that you don't know what romance is, or aren't capable of courtship, because, my dearest love, you've got it _nailed_.

Sometimes I think you calculate exactly which combinations of words will make melt into a teary-gooey mass of "God, I miss him."

Mostly, I just feel really lucky. Lucky to have had these last six months of work experience, lucky to be surrounded by talented, smart, generally positive people who believe in mutual support instead of brutal competition, and supremely lucky to have you in my life.

I will see you soon.

Really soon.

Love always,

Zoe.

 **(=A=)**

 **Stardate 45951.95**

 **(Saturday, 14 December 2368, 10:00 hours, local time, New York)**

The Starfleet side of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey transit center was eerily quiet for a Saturday in mid-December. At least, it seemed that way to me, but I'd only ever been through the 'fleet sides of San Francisco and Centaurus, so maybe it was just that New York wasn't typically used for official traffic.

I let the lieutenant at the gate scan my retina and my palm, and then read the contents of my ID chit as well. "Any live animals?" she asked.

"No."

"Any raw fruits or vegetables, or raw meat?"

"Um, no. Do people really bring stuff like that?"

"They try," she said. I wasn't sure if she was kidding, or not. "Only the one piece of luggage?"

"Yes."

She scanned my bag as well, then slapped a sticker on it with a raised printed circuit and the letters ENT-1701D-TRNSPT. Then she returned my ID chit and gave me a temporary comm-badge. "This helps the receiving transporter beam lock into you, and will also be used to communicate with you before you transport. Please take your luggage out of anti-grav mode, go through the portal, and check in at transport alcove five. You'll be called in about twenty minutes. Please accept my best wishes for the Terran winter holiday of your choice, and thank you for transporting through Port Authority."

I followed her instructions, and ended up being one of only two people in the designated alcove. I made eye contact with the transporter operator, and took a seat. Data said he would be the one meeting me, but I wouldn't be surprised if my mother joined him as well. I was just glad to be going home.

The other person, a man in science blues with commander's pips, was before me in the queue, and I heard the operator confirm coordinates for the _U.S.S. Lexington_ before he and his bag were beamed away.

Then it was my turn.

"Good morning, Ms. Harris. Can you confirm that you have one piece of luggage, in manual mode, and that your destination is the _U.S.S. Enterprise_?"

"That's correct."

She eyed the college sweatshirt I was wearing; taking in the white letters on the blue background. "You're headed to the flagship wearing _that_?"

She was grinning, so I knew _she_ was kidding. "I live on the _Enterprise_ ," I explained. "My boyfriend's an officer. _This_ represents where I'll be next year. I just found out yesterday, and haven't told anyone yet."

"Yeah? Well, congratulations." There was a beat as she typed data into her console. "Okay, Ms. Harris, step onto the platform please. Put your bag on the marker next to you, and relax."

I heard her side of the comm conversation. "Affirmative, _Enterprise_ , one to beam up." She glanced at me, "Ready?" After I nodded she hit a button. "Energizing."

Out of habit, I held my breath during transport. Data had observed that such behavior was unnecessary, but somehow, I couldn't stop doing it. The transporter beam released me, and I sucked in a fresh breath, then let it out, glancing first at the familiar walls of the _Enterprise_ transporter room, and then registering the familiar face of my partner.

"Data!" I didn't wait for permission, just grabbed the handle of my suitcase and ran to him.

He caught me up in the kind of hug I hadn't ever expected from him, and he whispered his words of greeting into my hair. "Zoe… I have missed you."

I stayed in his embrace as long as I could stand it, dimly aware that the ensign on transport duty had confirmed my arrival and stepped away from the console. "I've missed you, too." I lifted my head away from Data's chest and stretched up so that we could share a brief, tender kiss.

"Hi," I said, feeling shy and silly and joyful, all at once.

"Hi," he responded, echoing my word. He had never quite made that syllable his own, and a part of me hoped he never would.

"I got into Yale," I said. "Bet the sweatshirt was kind of a clue."

"I believe congratulations are in order," Data said softly, keeping our conversation private. "Perhaps a celebratory dinner?"

"Mom and Ed already have something planned, don't they?"

"They may have," he hedged. "If you do not wish to…"

"No, it's fine. It's all good. It's dinner, though, right? Not right now?"

"They have scheduled it for nineteen hundred hours, ship's time."

I grinned, and looped my arm through his. "That works. Are you on duty today?"

"No. Is there something you wish to do?"

"Actually," I said, "I'd like to just go home and _be_ , if that's okay with you."

Data's mouth moved into the faint curve that was his version of a smile. "That would be more than 'o-kay,'" he said. Then he thanked the transporter operator for his time, and took my bag from me with his right hand. With his left hand, Data captured my right, and then we left the transporter room and began the short walk to the turbo-lift that would take us home.

Hand-in-hand, we stepped through the doors of our quarters, but instead of letting go, Data led me to the couch, sitting down, and guiding me onto his lap. I had never been so happy to comply.

The kiss we shared then was deeper, and longer, and filled me with the taste of cashews. Data's taste. His arms came around me, and held me close, and I wrapped mine around his neck, and rested my head on his shoulder. Any other time we probably would have started pulling at each other's clothing, but that morning it was enough to just hold, and be held.

Eventually, Spot appeared, demanding that she be given the attention that was her due. When she jumped onto the back of the couch and began knitting my hair, I wasn't even annoyed. "I never thought I'd say this," I said, pushing her paws away so I could sit up. "But I actually missed this stripy old fleabag."

Data opened his mouth, probably to protest my insinuation that Spot might have fleas, but what he actually said was. "I believe that is merely her way of echoing my sentiment, Zoe: Welcome home."

* * *

 **Notes:** References the episodes "Imaginary Friend," "I, Borg," and "The Next Phase." Spans, but does not mention, "The Inner Light." Zoe's imaginary friend is named after the character Alak Tarr from the television show _Defiance._ (Alak was also one of the early influences of T'vek.) Time on the _Trieste_ is part of Data's canon service record, though officially he was there only as an ensign. I like the notion of him returning as a successful science officer once he made rank., which suggestion came from Christopher Bennett's novel _The Lost Era: The Buried Age_. Daria Roth is my own creation. Similarly, the designation FRS for the _Bernhardt_ is my own naming convention (Federation Registry Ship). Data shares his sexual history with Zoe in chapter 16 of _Crush II: Ostinato,_ and expands upon it slightly in _Carte Blanche.  
_

Shout-outs to **ReLive4Love** and **wintermute75** for a) beta-reading some of the sections, and b) helping me name a few characters.

 _Unaccompanied: A Suite for Actress and Android_ ends here, but there is more to come for Data and Zoe. Look for _Crush III: Sostenuto_ to begin within a week or two. And don't be surprised if there is a one shot, or two, and if you haven't read _Bedtime Story,_ even though I posted it in January, the bulk of it happens between this story and _Crush_ _III._

Thank you all, regular readers, guests, and those who read but never comment, for allowing me to be a bit experimental in this piece. I had fun; I hope you did, as well.


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